


Bloodlines

by Kissy



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissy/pseuds/Kissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood ties are not the only things that make a family.  Rated for sexuality, adult situations, peril, and graphic violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Snow had fallen the night before in Denerim. Elissa stood at her sitting room’s window, and waited for her husband to come home.

She pressed her lips together. Over the years, she had gotten used to his traveling. She didn’t expect any less from Alistair. He had a wanderer’s soul. He never stayed in one place for very long. It kept Elissa in the whirlwind, but she didn’t mind—most of the time. It was when Alistair took off to Maker only knew where for months at a time, and left her in Denerim by herself that made her want to kill him. Sometimes weeks would go by without a single note.

Still, that was of little consequence. There was no hint of infidelity, no whispers of bastard offspring or mistresses in their Court, no whiff of foul play. Elissa didn’t think twice about that, anyway. In all their time together, she had never second-guessed his fidelity, and was never given any reason to, despite his father’s track record.

Their time together…as the years passed, their time grew shorter. Neither of them held false hopes that they would grow old and gray together. They had fifteen years left, at the most, with no heir in sight. What would happen when they departed for the Deep Roads together? Who would rule in their stead?

She and he discussed this, at length, when the most recent Blight ravaged Thedas. Alistair’s destiny was the throne, yes. Elissa’s destiny was with Alistair, also true. But what _of_ the throne? Peace ruled the land now, but would civil war erupt if the throne were left vacant when they left for Orzammar?

Icy hands touched Elissa’s bare shoulders, and she shrieked. That was another thing she hated about her husband. He could be as silent as Death when he wanted to be…or was she mired so deeply in her own thoughts, that she did not hear him come in? Without turning, she stomped her foot. “Welcome home, you pain in my arse.”

“Hello,” he said. He wrapped his arms around Elissa, and held her close. “Miss me?”

“Not at all.” Elissa spun on one gilt-slippered foot, and flung her arms around Alistair’s neck. She scanned his face, and found that something was amiss. “What is it?”

Underneath the bone-weariness from weeks on the road was an unsettling disquiet, a stillness that unnerved Elissa. Alistair knew she could see it, and took her hands. “I need to tell you something.”

Sudden understanding caused Elissa’s heart to trip-hammer in her chest. “Orlais…you went to Orlais, didn’t you?” He nodded mutely, and Elissa sighed. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Celene won’t give up on marrying you, will she?”

“No. That isn’t the case, this time.” Alistair swept his cloak from his left hip, and extracted a sheaf of parchment. He scratched at one whiskered cheek. It made a harsh, sandpapery sound. “She’s tried to sweeten the deal, she has…and now Eamon’s gotten involved.”

The parchment changed hands. Elissa opened the packet, read the contents, and frightened herself and her husband by bursting into tears. The letter read thus:

_Alistair,_

_I write this letter with a heavy heart. I did not mean to anger you in any way. Forgive me for speaking out of turn. I spoke those words not in rage, but in the hopes that you understand the desperation of this rather touchy situation._

_Please try to understand that Ferelden is my first concern. Speak to the Empress. I know this is something you adamantly refuse to discuss (something you made quite clear the last time we spoke), nor is it something you wish to pursue—but it could be in your kingdom’s best interest._

_Eamon_

“Maker…why won’t the Arl just retire to a rocking chair like any other old busybody? It’s just like Cailan and Anora,” Elissa said, deflated. “They were childless as well, and Eamon insisted that Cailan leave Anora for someone who would bear him children.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and cupped her elbows. “It didn’t matter that Cailan loved her, the only thing that mattered was throne insurance for the Theirin line.”

“He never gave up on Anora, Elissa,” said Alistair, as he stroked her cheek. “He was forced to think about the consequences by staying, but he never left her. Remember the notes we found to Cailan, in Ostagar? He was in the same predicament, and he refused to bend, either. Nothing’s changed.”

“Hasn’t it?” Elissa wiped away an errant tear. “I’ve tried to give you what you wanted, and I’ve failed. I am expendable, like Anora was. You are King—you can remarry and potentially have healthy children, despite the Taint. Because we are both Tainted, and because we are aging, our chances to make a child now are slim to none…and…”

“And I’m still here.” He drew his wife closer. “Whether we have children or not doesn’t change how I feel about you. I admit I wanted children…and not just because I wanted to ensure my bloodline continued. I wanted them for all the same reasons any other man would. I…don’t make an issue of our inability to bear healthy children, because I know it won’t change anything.”

Alistair released Elissa, and strode to his desk. The desk in their sitting room was home to a small, flat stone. On it, Elissa had intricately carved two names in runic pictographs. It was the only thing they owned that indicated the existence of the two children Elissa had borne. Both babies were born perfect in every way. One of them—his son—had come into this world as lifeless as the rock that bore their names. 

He touched the stone, traced the runes with his fingers. The pain of their deaths had softened, somewhat, over the years, but each loss fractured his heart into progressively smaller pieces. As much as he tried to console his wife for their passing, as much as he understood that he could not truly lay blame on himself or Elissa…he could not come to terms with it himself. Alistair had burned the visages of both of his children into his mind. He remembered the translucence of their skin, the perfection of their form, and Maker curse his eyes, he could remember how his beautiful, dead son bore a striking and nigh unbearable resemblance to himself…but the worst was his daughter’s birth.

Alistair remembered her with a small pang. She, unlike her brother, lived for a few precious minutes. The babe had gifted Alistair and Elissa when she opened her eyes and beheld them for one shining moment—oh, Maker, her eyes were like his wife’s, so dark and so achingly beautiful—before they slipped closed forever.

Elissa joined him at the desk. She touched Alistair’s hand. “How long did it take us to stop fighting the inevitable?”

He fetched a deep sigh. “Since we buried our daughter’s ashes, so…it’s been seven years since we’ve given up trying.”

They stood at the great oak desk in silence. Alistair broke it. “I didn’t tell you what the Empress had for me.”

“Oh, right,” said Elissa, as she dashed fresh tears away with the heel of her hand. “What _did_ she want to give you?”

He turned his wife to face him, and wrapped his arms around her waist. He made a small noise in his throat. “Celene wishes to offer us a solution.”

Elissa sniffed derisively. “Let me guess. ‘Dump the wife, marry me, and have lots of babies.’ Right?”

“You’d think so. One of the Empress’s ladies-in-waiting has found herself…in a family way.” Alistair grinned mirthlessly at the irony. “She couldn’t bear the stigma of giving birth to a bastard, and implored the Empress for aid. She has offered us the chance to foster the babe. In return for adopting the child as our own, the Empress wishes us to agree to speak terms of lasting peace.”

“Peace? After all this time? I…a baby?” Utterly nonplussed, Elissa blinked at her husband. “Wait. She’s given up on marrying you?”

Alistair shrugged. “She _is_ getting old, Elissa. I think her desire to pop a litter for Ferelden has past. And I really don’t think she wanted to bed me just because she thought I was a baby-making machine. It’s all politics. She’ll use this baby as a bargaining chip, because she _knows_ we desperately need an heir. And…” Alistair stared at his boot-tops. “She knows how hard we’ve tried.”

“Darling,” said Elissa slowly, “How much _does_ she know, exactly? She doesn’t know about the Taint, does she…and what it has done to our life-span? Does she know _that_ is the reason we are childless?”

His eyes widened in alarm. “Maker’s Breath, woman! No one but the Grey Wardens knows of that. Imagine if that information spread through the common quarter…we’d have bedlam for certain, perhaps even civil war!”

She stood at the oaken desk, and fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “Is this something we’ll have time to think about?”

“No, there’s not much time,” Alistair replied. “The girl is due to give birth in four months. Not long, I’m afraid.” He worried his lip. “I’m not sure what to make of this, myself.”

“Why?”

A scarred, still-powerful hand reached across the desk, and seized the runic stone. “The child would not be mine or yours. We could certainly try to persuade our people that the child is ours, to ensure the safety of the throne—and they’ll readily accept that the child is of our blood. Why would they think otherwise? But that’s not the thing that’s been bothering me.”

Silence descended. He moodily set the stone back on the desk with a hollow _thunk_. He frowned to himself. “How would I treat such a child? Would I accept the child as my own? Would I give it less love than I would my own blood?”

“Is this about how you were treated, when _you_ were a child? Even if you _were_ a royal bastard, you were treated poorly. No child deserves that.” Elissa gazed frankly at Alistair, and ran her palm down his bewhiskered cheek. “But you survived your hardships. You grew into the man you are today, stronger for the experience. The Arl was most kind to take you in, but he never really made you feel like you were wanted. If you _had_ been, you would have had better accommodations than a stable-stall and fresh hay to bed down in. You won’t treat any child we foster that way, because you remember what it was like to be unwanted. In that respect, you are ten times the man Eamon was, even if he was a saint.”

Alistair grinned, despite his stinging eyes. “You know just what to say, Silver-Tongue.” He locked eyes with his wife. “Can we do this, you think?”

She spread her hands. “If we did agree to this—and I haven’t made up my mind just yet, so don’t jump to conclusions—then yes. We can. Our throne will be secure. If we foster this child, we’ll be able to experience parenthood. And…the child will be healthy. He will not be subject to the Taint.”

With a light heart, Alistair took Elissa by the shoulders. “Tell me. Is this what you want, truly?”

Elissa thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. It sounds like a dream come true. You?”

Alistair held Elissa close, and smiled into her hair. “Yes, I want this. More than anything.”


	2. Beginnings

**1**

When Alistair took the throne of Ferelden, he had no idea what made a King—or a man, for that matter. He knew nothing of politics, or of state affairs. He was a whiny little boy in a man’s body that still played with tin soldiers and hand puppets. He had his wife to thank for molding him into the man he had become…thank the Maker for her.

Since wresting the throne from Anora, he put aside all the childish things that gave him joy even into adulthood. He stowed them away with a small pang, as if a small part of his childhood went into his little lock-box with his Grey Warden puppet and dragon statuette.

Now, Alistair sat cross-legged before that lock-box in his Treasury, and one by one pulled his old belongings out. There, there was his bag of tin soldiers. His mouth twisted wryly. These would not be suitable for a baby, not yet…but in time, his adopted son or daughter would play with these and plan massive coups and win decisive battles and slay mighty dragons. Grinning, he dropped the leather bag back into the box.

While on the road, Alistair had told Elissa about a toy that he owned when he was young. He had reminisced fondly to her about the little golem he played with, and how one day he had lost it. Alistair told her that he was heartbroken when it was gone. But at that point he was packed off to the Chantry, so there was other, more pressing things on his mind and his golem was quickly forgotten. Alistair thought that was the end of that, until one day not too long after he and Elissa were wed, she had surprised him with a small crocheted golem on Wintersend Eve that she had made herself.

Here it was, too. He pulled the stuffed golem out of the box, and gave it a little shake. It jingled merrily at him. Laughing, he remembered that Elissa cunningly placed a cat’s bell somewhere inside the golem’s head when she stuffed it with old batting and sweet Elfroot. It tickled him then, and even now it brought a smile to his face.

He inspected the golem. There were no loose parts for an infant to pull off and choke on…good. The bell couldn’t come out of the golem unless you tore the poor wee thing’s head off, so he checked the stitching on its neck. Strong as it ever was, he found.

Alistair brought the golem to his face, and inhaled the scents of fifteen years past. On the stuffed creature, he could smell campfires and Elfroot and their old Mabari—five years gone, now—and the musk oil that Elissa wore. She had pocketed a small bottle of perfume from her vanity, on the night Howe’s men sacked Highever. Elissa would put it on while in camp, whenever she particularly missed her family. She used whatever was in the bottle years ago, and Alistair made sure to find a bottle of the heady stuff whenever he could...but it never smelled quite as sweet as the oil she had secreted out of her Keep fifteen years ago.

Ah, secrets. That scent also brought back less virtuous memories, of the arcanum Alistair had found the much-desired answers to with Elissa. Oh, he remembered Elissa’s _own_ secrets, daubed with musk, of which she was willing to share generously with him. It was the scent of the perfume she wore—and her own scent—which nearly drove him out of his mind with want, back when he had begun to woo her. It still did. The scent of musk reminded him of Elissa: his lover, his friend, his teacher. Elissa had shown him the nuances of her body, taught him how to find the answers he sought on his own…and in turn, he proved to be an exemplary student.

She was gentle and tolerant with Alistair, but Elissa was strong willed too…oh, was she _ever_. Maker knew Elissa could be abrasive and downright harsh with him when he proved to be obtuse…but in hindsight he knew that he instructed _her_ , as much as she did him. Elissa patiently taught him to be strong, while Alistair in turn taught her gentleness. In the end, they each molded their heart’s desire into who they were today.

But it was funny how one’s train of thought takes you off on different tangents, didn’t it? Chuckling, Alistair shook off those memories like a wizened old hound shook off rainwater. He’d be crouched in this dusty cellar all day if he didn’t stop daydreaming about making love to his wife and playing with his ancient tin soldiers while he nursed an enormous erection. It wasn’t exactly becoming of a grown man to act in such a manner, and certainly not becoming of the _King_ to act as such.

A ghost of a smile played about the corners of Alistair’s mouth as he tucked the golem in the neck of his sark, and rose to leave. He glanced at the lock-box, and knelt down again. He pulled the little Grey Warden hand-puppet and stuffed horse out of the box, said horse bedecked in a caparison of steel blue.

Alistair made a small noise in his throat. These were the first Satinalia gifts Elissa had given him. The little Grey Warden smiled cheekily up at him, and Alistair grinned back. He nodded to himself, and the little warrior and his steed joined the stuffed golem in his shirt.

He locked the little box, and hung the key by the heavy oak door. Alistair really might have stayed down here all day, had it not been for more pressing matters. Arl Eamon invited Alistair and his wife to his Denerim estate for tea, since the Arl and Isolde were up from Redcliffe this week. He made a face. Eamon was as close to a father as he ever had, but it didn’t damp Alistair’s dislike for Eamon’s wife Isolde, or for the Arl’s deteriorating condition.

To give the woman credit, Isolde had mellowed over the years, when she became caretaker for her aging, ailing husband. Alistair knew he could hold a grudge against Eamon and his wife if he so desired—he certainly did when he was ten—but he felt he was past such childishness, even if the woman in question and her old, doddering husband were not.

**2**

Alistair and Elissa never bothered with pomp and ceremony when they left the Royal Palace. There were no stately carriages pulled by ten white horses. Heralds and trumpeteers did not announce them wherever they went—in fact, they much preferred moving about like common folk, just like they did that afternoon.

They walked hand-in-hand to the Arl’s manse, right out in the open. Most of the passerby did not recognize them, as they left the hoods on their plain (albeit finely-made) homespun cloaks up. The few that did see them for who they truly were merely waved hello or spoke briefly to them in greeting. The commoners and gentry-folk that recognized them also knew that they packed live steel under their cloaks—no one would beset them on their stroll this day, and survive the misdeed.

Some fifteen minutes or so before they arrived at the Arl’s keep, Alistair squeezed Elissa’s hand. “My love?”

She glanced at her husband. “Yes?”

“I…have an odd feeling about today’s visit to Eamon and Isolde. I can’t put my finger on it.” He shrugged uncomfortably under his cloak. “It has nothing to do with our news, either.”

Elissa cocked her head at Alistair. “Mayhap they have news of their own?”

“Mayhap they do…although I’m not too keen on hearing it.” Alistair slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “The last time Eamon had ‘news’, he had sent word to Celene again to offer me in marriage. As I’m happy with my current wife, ‘twas a moot point to argue with me about marrying the Empress of Orlais.”

The current wife in question laughed merrily. “The last time remarriage came up in conversation, one could hear you and Eamon scream at each other all the way _in_ Orlais. I don’t think he’ll do that again.”

“Nor I.” Alistair released her, and spread his hands. “I _still_ have a bad feeling about this visit. When was the last time Eamon and Isolde invited us to tea?”

Elissa grinned. “With or without Thedas-shattering news?”

Alistair returned her warmth. “Without.”

Tapping her teeth together, Elissa did the math in her head. “The last time they came calling without a scorched-earth proposition? ‘Twas the year I became pregnant again, before...” She shut her mouth with a snap. Alistair did not need to ask, nor did he press the issue. There was no need. Elissa did not like to talk of their daughter’s passing, even now. “I’d say almost eight years ago, Alistair.”

He snorted. “Something’s up.” Alistair glanced at Elissa, and he pressed his lips together. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

They arrived at the manse. Oh, something was definitely awry. At the gates, four armed-to-the-teeth Templars stood motionless. Through the eye slits of his helmet, one of the knights gave Alistair and Elissa the once-over before allowing them to pass.

The Royals looked at each other warily, then up at the second story of the manse. Surely enough, a pair of Templars stood at the balcony’s balustrade. Each pearled-glass window bore the shadow of someone heavily armored.

“What…?” Alistair exchanged another worried look with Elissa. He shook his head, bemused. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

**3**

It was apparent what was afoot, as soon as they closed the heavy oaken door behind them. Alistair hung his cloak on a gaudy, gold-leafed coat tree. As Elissa followed suit, a tall, ginger-haired man reached over her shoulder and hung a simple embroidered cowl. “Hello, my Queen,” the man said a pleasant voice.

Alistair’s eyes flicked in the direction of the voice, before opening wide. “As I live and breathe… _Connor_? What are _you_ doing here?”

Connor clasped Alistair’s shoulder warmly. “Same as you, I wager. For tea.” He leaned forward and took Elissa’s hand, and kissed her palm. And you, Good-Sister? Have you been well?”

Ever since he was old enough to understand such things, Connor had accepted—and welcomed—the idea that Alistair was part of his family. As he had no siblings of his own to speak of, he was more than happy to call his King and Warrior-Queen kin.

Elissa twinkled at her ‘Good-Brother’. “I’m well, Connor, but really…how did you get leave to come here?”

The mage pooched his lips. “I daresay it’s because my family is the second most powerful in Denerim…after yours, of course,” he said glibly. “It wasn’t without pulling many teeth, I’m afraid—and I’m sure you saw my babysitters, yes? I can’t figure out why they sent so many Templars with me, but there you have it.”

So _this_ was what the platoon of Templars were there for. Alistair gave Elissa a knowing, secretive look. _They_ knew now why there were so many Templars about—‘twas because the Mage they had been sent to guard was once a very powerful Abomination. It was for the best that Connor had no memory of the incident.

“It’s best not to ask the difficult questions, yes?” Connor scratched his whiskered chin. “To be honest, I don’t want to know…even if you two _do_ know.”

“We can’t get anything past you, can we?” Alistair laughed. His smile faded. “Your father…how is he?”

The young man’s smile was strained. “He’s unchanged.” Connor exhaled audibly. “He’s _old_ , Alistair. There’s nothing on Thedas that will stop the flow of time.”

The three stood in silence by the gaudy coat tree. Connor broke it, and motioned towards the dining area. “Shall we? I have prepared the tea for us. It’s an honor to use my King and Queen as guinea-pigs, for this opportunity to try out some new recipes was too good to pass up.”

“You can _cook_?” Elissa’s eyebrows vaulted high.

Simpering, he nodded to Alistair. “A sight better than the King of Ferelden, I’ll bet. Not too long before she died, Wynne told me about the times you and your friends spent on the road, during the last Blight.” He mock-leered at his foster brother. “She told me every meal you cooked came out nigh-inedible.”

“She was right,” said Alistair, reminiscing. “The only thing I managed to prepare correctly was melted cheese.”

Connor burst into hearty laughter. “That sounds like you.” He inclined his chin at the dining room. “Mum and Dad are waiting for Their Majesties, and are crotchety for having been made to wait. I suggest you brace yourselves.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Fantastic, I can’t wait. I haven’t been browbeaten in days, and I’m overdue for my weekly tongue-lashing.”

Connor gave them a charming half-shrug. “Par for the course.”

**4**

At tea, Connor served them proudly, while his armored keepers trooped into the expansive room to watch in silence. He looked to his father, and smiled sadly. Eamon sat in his high-backed chair, napping. Connor reached out, and stroked his father’s hair from his brow. “Father, it’s tea-time.”

“Mmm?” Eamon jerked awake, smoothing his doublet. “Sorry, dear boy. Was I asleep long?”

“Not long, Father,” said Connor, and the tremor in the mage’s voice nearly broke Elissa’s heart. “Will you try the _foie gras_? It’s fresh.”

“How delightful.” Eamon fastidiously tucked a linen napkin in the collar of his jacket. He glanced up, and brightened. “Alistair, my boy! It’s good to see you!”

“And you as well, Lord Eamon.” ‘Twas the third time Eamon had said that to Alistair in the past hour. Elissa looked at Alistair, and was alarmed to see the stricken expression on her husband’s face. “I thank you.”

Isolde sat next to Alistair, and touched his arm. “He _is_ having a good day today, Alistair.” She smiled at Elissa, and the Queen quailed at the wretched quality of it. “Eamon is happy both he and Connor have come to call.”

Eamon flashed Isolde a withering glare. “I can speak for myself, you know.” He leaned back in his chair, and massaged his knuckles. “But you are right. There are days when I cannot even remember my son’s name—or my own.” He glanced at Alistair. “It _is_ a good day today. My boys has come to visit.”

Connor sat beside Isolde, and took her hand. He patted it distractedly as she stared at the Damask tablecloth and choked on tears unshed. “We are happy to be here, Father.”

“ _You_ are happy to be here. I know this, Connor. I don’t know if I can say the same for Alistair and…for…” Eamon frowned, confused. He blinked at his Queen.

“Elissa, Lord Eamon,” said Alistair tremulously. “And we _are_ happy to be here.”

The Arl pursed his lips. “Are you? The last time we spoke, we had sharp words.”

Alistair stared at his plate. “You remember that. Do you remember why?”

The old nobleman cleared his throat, and nodded. “I do. My mind is not as decrepit as you or my wife think. We argued because of your childlessness.” He looked sharply at Alistair. “I did not wish to anger you, son. I merely wanted you to know you have options…the same options Cailan had.”

“Options? There are no options here. I will not leave my wife for another, just so I can have children to carry the Theirin line past my death.” Alistair fetched a sigh, shuddering. “And I will not argue with you about this anymore. There is enough bad blood between you and I as it is.”

Eamon inclined his head at Alistair. “Yes. And I’ll not have it anymore, either. Bad blood gets in the way of the affections between father and son.”

Alistair’s head jerked up, and it was immediately apparent that he was incensed beyond belief. “Since when did you have fatherly affection for me, let alone consider me your _son_?” He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Eamon, you’ve never treated me poorly, but I’d consider that a very long shot from love and affection.”

“Bitterness does not become you, Highness,” said Eamon. The old man chuckled darkly, and suddenly tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks. “That’s what you’ve made yourself _think_ , over the years. You’re remembering the days in your stable-stall, and remembering that I sent you away to the Chantry because Isolde could not bear the rumors about you and I?”

Isolde lost her battle with her tears. “Eamon…”

The old man made a curt gesture with his hand. “No. This needs to be said. I cannot allow this bad blood to fester any longer.” Eamon rested his withered, sere gaze on Alistair’s pale visage. “Can you remember as far back as the day of your birth? Can you remember the carriage ride between Denerim and Redcliffe, and how I had to hide your basket under a sheaf of Elfroot when bandits beset our caravan? Do you remember the endless days I searched frantically across my Arldom for a wet-nurse to feed you, all the while terrified you were going to die of starvation if I couldn’t find a nursing mother willing to make a half-crown? Surely you remember the fever that came over you when we were but two days’ ride from Redcliffe Manor, yes? You _burned_ for those two days, and every single healer we brought you to sang your death-knell.”

The Arl brought his shaking chin up defiantly. “Your life was hard-won, boy, and I take great pride in that fact. From the moment I carried you into my home in my very arms, I have loved you as if you were my own son.”

Alistair gasped convulsively. “You never told me this. Why? If this is how you felt, then why did you not show me this when I was growing up?” he said shakily.

Eamon reached across the table suddenly, and grabbed Alistair’s hand with strength reserved solely for the very sick and the very old. The Arl squeezed Alistair’s fingers, making the regent gasp. “I don’t _know_ ,” said Eamon. “Maker curse my eyes, I wish I did. I know how I treated you, and you have no idea how it twists my heart now. Before I married Isolde, all I _had_ was you. As I find my own death approaching…”

“Eamon,” said Isolde, crying unabashedly. “You are hardly…”

The old man made a shooing gesture with his hands. “Hush, woman. Let me finish.” He turned to his now-grown fosterling. “As I say, I am dying…and I don’t begrudge it, as it happens to the best of us. But it is sinful to pass through the Veil without atoning for the wrongs one has done throughout life. I want to apologize to you about your upbringing.

“I…it would be a lie to say that your poor treatment began when I married Isolde, wouldn’t it? When you were old enough, Alistair, I had you sleep in the stables. You never went hungry, nor were you ever hidden from view when nobles came a-calling. You were as much a son to me as Connor is…and yet, instead of crisp linen and goose-down, you slept on hay and had few companions besides the three Mabari that stayed in that selfsame stable. You were… _are_ …royalty, and I treated you like a farm-boy.” Eamon took a deep, watery breath. “I cry your pardon, Alistair.”

Alistair sighed heavily. He patted his foster father’s liver-spotted hand. “Eamon,” said Alistair, “You do not need to apologize. You took me in, when my only other fate was a Chantry orphanage. I would have slipped through the cracks had that been my fate. If you did not foster me, I probably wouldn’t have joined the Templars. Duncan would have never found me, and I wouldn’t have become a Grey Warden.” He gazed at Elissa. “I never would have met my wife.”

Eamon squeezed Alistair’s hand one last time before releasing his fingers. “You were always a kind boy. You resented me, when I sent you away...but you were never truly hateful. Years after you left, I _still_ didn’t deserve your kindness, but you and your wife saved me when I lay dying from the Maleficarum’s poison. I owe you everything, save spite and malice.”

“Lord Eamon,” Alistair whispered, “thank you." 

The old man nodded. “I owe it to you not to bring up remarriage again…but,” he said, content to leave the most recent ugliness behind, “there is one thing I’ve found, that might be of aid to you and the Queen.”

“What might that be, Uncle?” Elissa said respectfully, as her husband dashed at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“As I say, I am old,” said Eamon, “and I have quite a bit of free time on my hands. I read often, to stay the fog that creeps in my head. Connor,” he said to his son, “go and fetch me the leather-bound book by my easy chair, and my spectacles along with it.”

The young man did as he was bid. When he returned with the book and glasses, Eamon waved his foster son and his wife closer. Alistair and Elissa leaned forward, intent on the knowledge Eamon had found. Hopefully, as the rather ugly remarriage argument was far behind them, this information might prove useful.

Donning his comically thick, translucent specs, Eamon licked his thumb and slowly flipped through the thick sheaves of parchment. Alistair tapped his fingers against his plate with impatience, while Elissa fidgeted in her chair. Without raising his gaze, Eamon said, “Patience, Your Majesties. It’s here somewhere…”

Connor glanced at Isolde, and nodded. All it took to whisk the choking, addling mist from their beloved Arl’s mind was a heated argument with the King of Ferelden. Isolde returned the nod, and placed her hand over her heart. In unison, they turned their relieved visages to Eamon.

The Arl pored over his book. “The knowledge here is old, very old indeed. It might be anachronistic, but it might also prove useful…ah.” He poked the page triumphantly. “Here it is.” Eamon paused a moment, reading. “In 2:73 Glory, Teryn Caedmon became the first King. There is very little here about his family and his bloodline, as he was defeated not long after he announced his Kingship. But…his grandfather, the legendary First Teryn Hafter, he is the one we seek. As Hafter was never King, what he did might not apply to you…Maker knows whether you could get away with this legally, in the first place.”

“What did Hafter do?” Alistair touched the tips of his fingers to his lower lip. “I’m not sure I want to know, now.”

Eamon scratched his pate, his wispy white hair sticking up every which way. “Hafter had a wife, for certain…but there are clues that point to Teryn Hafter’s children not precisely being _hers_.”

“Who, then?” Elissa cocked her head at the old Arl. “Where could his children possibly have come from, if not from his wife? Did he have a mistress?”

“It would seem that Hafter had another woman, albeit not necessarily a mistress.” Arl Eamon ponderously took his glasses off, and stared frankly at his Queen. “All the information I found hints that Hafter had a concubine of sorts.”

“A _what_?” Alistair stood, and angrily paced the room. “Are you suggesting I take a concubine to ensure my blood continues?” When Eamon shrugged uneasily, Alistair flew off the handle. “ _Absolutely not_! I will _not_ take a concubine to my bed! That would be just as bad as taking another wife!”

“Softly, brother,” said Connor hastily. The mage stood, and put his hands up before the King. “It’s only a suggestion. Yes, Father?”

“Yes,” agreed Eamon. “I’m not certain you could do this at all, truth be told. The information _is_ quite anachronistic, as I’ve said. The information herein is not as detailed as I’d like, but I was able to put the pieces together.” Eamon flipped to the next page. “It seems the woman—unnamed, as far as I can tell—bore three sons to the Teryn, and was their wet-nurse until they were old enough to be weaned. She had no special privileges beyond the rather Spartan comforts of her own apartments in the Teryn’s Keep. She was a part of his Household merely to have children. She did not raise them, the Teryna did. Those three boys were legally and publicly acknowledged as Teryn Hafter’s sons, entitled to inherit the Teryn’s wealth and lands, despite being publicly known that they were not of his wife.”

Alistair shook his head. “So what’s the difference between this woman and a common mistress, then? I see none.”

The leather-bound book closed with a snap. “The difference, dear boy,” said Eamon dryly, “is that the concubine was contracted to the Teryn solely to bear children, and handsomely paid for her services. She received two sovereigns a year—a rather princely sum in those days. She had no claim on the Teryn, despite bearing his children. She was hired help, no more.”

“I…” Alistair began. “I…don’t know what to make of this.” He glanced at Elissa, who gazed silently at her untouched pate. “It is something I must discuss with my wife in private, and I will not guarantee her acceptance—nor mine.”

“Agreed,” said Eamon. “Think on it.”

The Queen licked her lips and said in a halting voice, so unlike her confident drawl, “For all we know, this could be a legend…nothing more.” She glanced at Alistair, and inclined her chin at Eamon.

The regent crossed his arms and stared uncomprehendingly at his wife, before he closed his eyes, nodded, and made a sound of understanding. “Right. Lord Eamon, we have news.”

Arl Eamon rubbed at his eyes, yawning. The moment of lucidity had come and gone, it seemed. “What is it, dear boy?”

Alistair began to pace again. “Your information is most welcome, but we—Elissa and I—have come across another solution.”

Isolde, having finally gotten herself under control, sniffled once. “That is fortuitous. What would this solution be?”

“’Tis no silver arrow, but it serves its purpose,” said Elissa. “We have decided to adopt.”

Eamon pursed his lips, and shook his head. “That is very kind of you both to take in an orphan, but it won’t help your situation. The child would not be of the Theirin line.”

“We know.” Alistair bolstered his courage, and gazed at Elissa. “We didn’t plan on _telling_ anyone the child was adopted.”

The old man’s eyes sharpened. He heaved himself from his chair, and hobbled to his King. He took a double-handful of Alistair’s sark, and shook him as a terrier would shake a rat. “You plan to deceive your people? You are _King_ , Alistair! You have a responsibility to Ferelden! You cannot foist an orphan off on your people and claim it to be yours and Elissa’s. It’s unethical—and more to the point, you have your bloodline to think of!”

Alistair reached up, and gently disengaged Eamon’s hands. He held them. “Is blood really that important, my Lord?” he asked, gently.

“It is, if you are King,” said Eamon morosely. “But…I see your point.” He leveled a jaundiced eyeball at his foster son. “If you do continue with this hare-brained scheme, I shall keep your secret and remain silent.” He swiveled his head on his too-thin neck, and stared at his wife and son. “As will everyone else in this room. Yes?”

“Yes,” they echoed.

“Good.” He held his palsied hands out to his son, and Connor rushed to take them. Eamon spoke once more. “And now, it is time for my mid-afternoon nap. Connor, will you assist me upstairs?”

When the Arl had retired, Isolde frowned at Elissa. “When will this child be in your possession, Highness?”

“She is on her way to Ferelden as we speak,” said Elissa. “She was born last month. Her mother was to be the one to deliver the child to us. Unfortunately, Celene has informed us that the babe’s mother died in childbirth. She is en-route with her wet-nurse, and will arrive within the week.”

“The _Empress_? What does Celene have to do with this?” said Isolde, furrowing her brow.

Elissa blanched when she realized her _faux pas_ , and Alistair grimaced. Neither Isolde nor Eamon were to know of the deal that the Empress wished to broker with Ferelden’s Royals. Alistair covered his face with his hand. “Can you keep a secret, Lady Isolde?”

When she nodded warily, Alistair said, “This child is the get of one of Celene’s hand-maidens. The young woman could not raise the child, so Celene has asked for our aid. The babe is a symbol of peace between Ferelden and Orlais. When the child arrives, Elissa and I will begin negotiating a lasting peace with Celene.”

“This is wonderful news!” She touched Elissa’s forearm. “Call on me when the child arrives. I will help as much as I am able.”

Far from being regularly bathed in Isolde’s warmth, Elissa blinked. “O—of course. Thank you, Lady Isolde.” She turned to smile at her husband. Elissa’s smile curdled when she beheld Alistair’s blank expression, and wondered what to make of it.

**5**

Four nights later, a raven-haired Orlesian elf woman stood at the servants’ entrance of the Royal Castle. She bore a tiny, mewling bundle. She reached up with her free hand, and rang the great bell that hung from the balustrade. A stony-faced knight immediately granted her access. The elfin woman followed the knight through the dimly-lit belly of the castle to the Royal Apartments. The King and Queen of Ferelden received her silently, and bade her enter the sitting room.

When they were alone, the woman held the bundle out to Elissa with nary a word. Elissa took the baby, and held her. Her tiny face and a lock of her hair were the only things visible through the intricately folded swaddling and wrapping. The child could pass for Elissa’s, without a problem. The baby had pale, alabaster skin, and an amazing shock of dark hair tumbled across her brow. The shade matched the Queen’s almost exactly. The babe opened her eyes, and immediately began crying lustily. Elissa grinned, and looked to Alistair. “Her eyes are hazel, just like yours. It couldn’t be any _more_ perfect.”

The baby smacked her tiny lips, and redoubled her cries. Elissa tucked the baby into the valley between her shoulder and her neck, and patted the baby’s back. The baby calmed somewhat, molding her tiny body to Elissa’s. Were it not for decorum, Elissa might very well have burst into relieved tears. _A child…this is_ our _child,_ she thought to herself.

She winked at Alistair. “Call for a wet-nurse, dear. She needs to be fed…” said she, until she gazed at the elf woman. The elf looked downcast, and it became clear to Elissa that this woman was the baby’s caretaker during the trip from Orlais. “Unless…you wish to…?”

“Yes,” said the raven-haired elf-woman in assuagement. She dimpled. “I’ve grown a bit fond of my charge. One last time will not hurt.” She looked about for a suitable chair, and chose a snug-looking rocker. She sat down, made herself comfortable, and held her arms out for the swathed infant. She began to nurse the girl-child, crooning nonsensical words to her in the ancient Elven tongue.

When the child finished her meal, the elf woman held her tiny, sleeping form out to Alistair. “Your daughter, Your Majesty,” she said, a tremor in her lilting voice.

He took the child, and held her close. He drew one shaking finger over her downy brow, gently ruffling the curls there. The baby squawked indignantly before settling down again. He chuffed once in laughter. “She _is_ beautiful,” he said, and could not hide the unsteadiness in his voice.

The woman rose to go. “Goodbye, Majesties. Take care of her.” She stepped lightly to where Alistair and his new daughter stood. She touched the tip of the child’s nose with her own. _“Namaarie, Tinu.”_

As the elfin woman strode to the door, Elissa stopped her. She pressed two sovereigns into her diminutive hand. “Take this, please. You have done something for us that couldn’t possibly be repaid with gold.” She curled her hand around the elf woman’s, and folded the wet-nurse’s fingers shut over the coins. “Consider this a gift from us. It pales in comparison to our gratitude.”

“It is I, and my Empress, that should be grateful to _you_ , Highness,” said the elf. “Empress Celene wished for me to tell you this: ‘You are kind and generous, to take in this fosterling. This young one is the embodiment of goodwill, and of peace. I am forever grateful.’” She blushed slightly, as she slid the coins into her pocket. “That is my feeling, as well.” She handed Alistair a rucksack filled with swaddling and rags and blankets. Without another word, the elf woman left.

Elisa approached Alistair, and looped her arms around his waist. They gazed at each other, and shared a lingering, gentle kiss. The baby made another odd sound between them, and husband and wife parted, laughing.

“Oh, my,” said Alistair. He patted the baby’s bottom. “We might want to call for her nurse, anyway. She needs to be changed.”

Elissa crossed her arms. “Oh, no you don’t. We will not hand off every little thing to her nannies and her nurses. We do everything on our own.”

Alistair paled. “Are you suggesting that I _change_ her?”

His Queen grinned savagely. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m suggesting.”

He stared incredulously at Elissa. “You’re kidding!” Alistair puffed his cheeks out and blew an irritated sigh. “Fine. I guess this is part and parcel to being a father, eh…even if I _am_ King.” He took the rucksack proffered by Elissa, and sat down on an expansive chaise. He placed the baby down, and un-wrapped her blanket. His eyes widened to almost comic proportions.

_Oh, Maker._

“Elissa? Darling?” Alistair craned his neck, and looked over his shoulder at his wife. “You…might want to see this.”

“What is it?” She walked to Alistair and their new daughter, and stopped dead when she realized the child was not precisely…human. She blinked at the child’s rounded cheeks and delicately pointed ears.

“That’s an elf,” said Elissa. “We—that’s an _elf_!”

In silence, Alistair clumsily changed the fosterling, wrapped the soft blanket around the baby again, and handed the infant to Elissa. He stood, and walked to the sitting room’s window. He clenched and unclenched his hands, then seized the windowsill and leaned out the open window as far as he could go. He hoarsely shouted into the night.

“DAMN YOU, CELENE!”


	3. Understanding

**1**

Half a dozen of the Royal Guards were sent out in search of the elf that brought the baby to the Theirins. For days, they combed the surrounding area, making wider concentric circles each time they swept the countryside. Each search party came back empty handed.

The elf-girl was gone.

In the meantime, Alistair and Elissa had the child, and were at a loss about what to do with her. The morning after the elven woman disappeared like smoke, Elissa paced their study. The tiny elven baby lay draped over the Queen's shoulder. She screamed fit to wake the dead. Elissa patted the baby's back, and made cooing, nonsensical noises in an effort to calm the infant. She glanced worriedly at Alistair, who had at that moment entered the study. Without thinking, he frowned at the baby.

“How can we bring a wet-nurse into this? No one will overlook the fact that this baby is Elven, and that will surely queer the pitch if we're going to foist her off as our blood-child,” said Elissa. She stroked the baby's downy head. “The babe has not nursed in hours. Water and goat's milk will only sustain her for so long. She will die if she is not nursed soon.”

“I know,” said Alistair, as he thought _it might be for the best._ “I've sent guards to search throughout the Keep. There ought to be someone in this city that is willing to keep their mouth shut.”

Another pained sob emanated from the baby's mouth. Touched by the infant's hungry, bereft wail, Alistair instinctively reached out and lay his hand on the baby's back. She grunted, snuffled against Elissa's shoulder, and drifted into a fitful sleep. Alistair fetched a sigh. “I've sent word to our comrades. Perhaps they can help in some way.”

As she deposited the child in her years-dead son's ornate, unused bassinet, she tapped her teeth together. “You know something that I don't? Because _I've_ tried to correspond with our comrades over the years. I've not heard a word from half of them, and haven't seen hide nor hair of the other half. I'll not hold my breath.”

Alistair crossed his arms. “All except Zevran.” He laddered his forehead. “He's kept in touch since his ascension to leader of the Crows, and he's shown his delightful face twice or thrice since then.”

Elissa looked at Alistair from the corner of her eye, and grinned. “Don't tell me you're still jealous of Zev, after all these years?” She crossed the room to Alistair on cat's-paws, so as not to wake the baby. When she reached Alistair, another implication occurred to Elissa. “Wait... _you_ called on Zev personally,didn't you?”

“I...well...” stammered the regent. “You see, my love...I sent our swiftest horseman to Antiva last night. It might be a week, perhaps two, before we hear any word from the rider...but it was the only thing I could think of. I didn't know what to do, otherwise. He's the only elf that we...that _you've_ been close to. Maybe he'll has some answers to this problem that we might have overlooked.”

They migrated to the double doors that led to the veranda outside. Alistair tucked Elissa's hand in the crook of his elbow, as he led her outside. “I didn't know what to do,” Alistair repeated. “I suppose I should have told you.”

“it's all right,” said Elissa. She patted his bicep with her free hand. “You did fine, under the circumstances. You kept a cool head under pressure. And this is Zevran we're talking about. He'll keep quiet about this.” She touched her finger to her lips. “Speaking of which, what message did you give the rider for Zevran?”

He raised one shoulder, dismissing Elissa's worries. “That Zevran should come as soon as possible to help sort out a...problem,” said Alistair. He drew the last word out, when he realized how much his choice of words irked Elissa. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and released his wife. Alistair strode to the balustrade of the veranda, and curled his powerful hands around the railing.

“Sorry,” said he, sounding anything but. “I'm _angry_ , Elissa. Celene deceived us. She saddled us with a child that couldn't possibly be passed off as either of ours.” Alistair shifted his gaze to his wife. “The only way to hide its heritage now is to cut the points off its ears.”

The Queen of Ferelden made a tiny noise of disgust. She punched Alistair's arm. “You'll do no such thing!”

Chuckling, Alistair released the railing and gathered Elissa in his arms. “Softly, dear. You know I wouldn't harm the child, or maim it. It is blameless in this situation.”

Elissa squirmed in Alistair's arms. “ _She_.”

When Alistair shook his head in puzzlement, his wife granted him an icy stare. “The baby is a girl. You know that...you changed her swaddling first.”

“I...” Alistair sucked at his teeth in irritation. “I know. I just...can't acknowledge...I'm sorry.” He gazed at Elissa with naked supplication, and took her hands. “I don't know if I could ever look at this child as my daughter. It has nothing to do with her being an elf...”

Elissa yanked her hands out of Alistair's grasp. “It has _everything_ to do with it! I should have known this is how you would act.”

Understanding dawned in Alistair's hazel-and-bloodwood eyes. He raised his hand, and jabbed a shaking finger at Elissa. “You...you're falling in love with the babe! It hasn't been in our care for more than a day, and you've claimed it as your own!”

She turned on her toes, and stepped three paces away. Arms crossed, Elissa glared at Alistair over her shoulder. “Perhaps we will find another way to ensure your all-mighty bloodline, but is _this_ so bad? We could finally be parents, whether the baby is elven or human. Can you really say you'd have felt any differently, had the child been human?”

Alistair balled his hands into fists. “The more you press me, and the more I think on it, the more inclined I am to say yes.”

Elissa's icy facade crumbled, as she turned fully to face Alistair. Her mouth drew down in a trembling, angry bow. “You _brute_ ,” she said in a voice that shook with mingled fury and disappointment. She spun on her heel, and thumped heavily into the sitting room. She gathered the now-screaming child to her breast, and fled from her husband.

Alistair watched Elissa go, and hung his head. He knew this would happen, and he had a feeling Celene— _damn her eyes!_ —sensed it would happen, too.

**2**

Good news came that night, in the form of a sixteen-year-old commoner. Two of Elissa and Alistair's guards led the quaking young woman into the Royal Court. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and filled with fear. She stood before the overly-ornate thrones of Ferelden and hugged her arms under her swollen breasts.

One of the guards touched her briefly on one shoulder. “Be of good cheer, Miss. Your presence here is of utmost import—”

“Have _you_ lost a child lately?” The young woman sniffled and ungracefully wiped her nose with the back of her hand. The guard flushed with embarrassment. He took his hand away from the girl's shoulder and shrugged, discomfited.

The young woman sneered at the guard. She raked her tangled blonde hair from her face with slim, shaking fingers. “Of course you haven't. A man could never know what it is like to lose a child you've carried for nearly a year.”

The heavy oaken door behind the dais opened, and Elissa walked quickly to the woman. She held her hands out to the girl—it wasn't unthought of for a Queen to clasp hands with a commoner, but those circumstances usually involved dragon-slaying or country-saving. Surprised into silence, the young woman took Elissa's proffered hands.

“Our guards...have they told you why they have brought you to Us in the middle of the night? You truly know why you are here?” said Elissa. The girl nodded silently, and Elissa continued. “Will you help Us?”

“Yes,” the girl whispered. She trembled visibly at the sight of her Queen.

Elissa blew a gusty sigh in relief. “There ought to be an Arldom somewhere in Ferelden that We can bestow upon you for this,” said Elissa. Relieved tears welled in her eyes. “We could never repay you for this particular service to the throne.”

“Highness,” said the woman, in tears herself, “the Princess will never fill the hole that the little one I lost has left in my life, but to help Your Majesties in Your time of need...it lightens my heart.”

The oaken door swung wide open, and the King of Ferelden stuck his head out the doorway. Frenzied caterwauling streamed around his bulk, like floodwater coursing around a half-submerged tree. Alistair's sark had splotches of urine and half-digested goat milk down the front of it. His hair stood crazily from his head; it pointed every which-way, making him resemble an annoyed porcupine.

Alistair raised his ginger eyebrows at the women. “Can we save the flowery blah-de-blah for later? The babe needs to be fed.” He rested his gaze on the common girl. “My wife and I need to talk to you, Miss. It is a grave situation, one that requires your full attention...and privacy.”

The Royal Guardsmen thumped their breastplates with mailed fists. “By your leave, my King,” Alistair's lieutenant said.

“Thank you, Jason,” said Alistair with a companionable wave. The Guardsmen saluted, and took their leave.

When the three were alone, Elissa touched the young woman's arm. “The child is in the sitting room past this door. The chaise there is a sight more comfortable than either of the thrones.” She pantomimed a sore posterior, and rubbed her behind with a small grin. The girl returned the warmth wanly, and followed the royals into their apartments.

Alistair's voice floated through the oak door, as Elissa swung it shut on its pivots. “ _My_ throne is comfy...”

**3**

The girl made herself comfortable on Elissa's chaise, and held her hands out for the child. Alistair deposited the baby in her waiting arms with a small sigh of relief. Without preamble, the woman untied her bodice and bared her breast for the baby. It took but a moment for the baby to latch on; when the child finally began to suckle, the woman let out a small, contented sigh. “Ahh. Maker be thanked.”

Blushing furiously, Alistair turned to a bookcase and grabbed a book at random. It happened to be _Compleat Genealogy of the Kyngs of Ferelden_...his least favorite tome. Elissa and the woman exchanged a secret smile. Elissa rose, retrieved a throw-blanket from her husband's overstuffed chair, and draped it over the woman's shoulder. She raised her eyebrows at her husband's back. “It's safe to look now, Alistair,” she said.

_Kyngs of Ferelden_ snapped shut. “Thank goodness. I hate that book,” he said. The heavy, much-maligned tome found its way back onto the shelf. Alistair took a deep, bolstering breath, and turned to the woman. “Let's speak freely, shall we?”

“Yes, Majesty,” said the woman. “That is best.”

“Miss?” Elissa said, “what is your name?”

“My name?” She shrugged once, still uncomfortable addressing royalty. “It's Lynn, my Queen.”

“Thank you, Lynn.” Elissa ran a knuckle under one streaming eye. “What you've done for Us cannot ever be repaid with sovereigns or jewels, no matter how many We shower you with...but We must speak of your payment.”

“I...have no idea how much a wet-nurse earns, Highness,” said Lynn truthfully. “Whatever you think is best, I will accept. I coudn't ask for payment in gold, anyway—to be able to relieve my pain is payment enough.” She motioned to her swollen breasts, and Elissa nodded in understanding.

Alistair flopped into his overstuffed chair. He sported dark, puffy rings under his eyes, evidence of exhaustion. He ran the back of his hand over his stubbled chin, and it made a sandpapery sound. “Surely you wouldn't mind earning a few extra gold for your family?

Lynn snuffled back fresh tears. “I have no family. Not anymore.”

“But...” Elissa motioned to Lynn's overripe breasts. “You have given birth recently, haven't you? You wouldn't be able to nurse otherwise.”

The young woman drew her fingers down the baby's downy forehead. “My husband and my son are dead,” said Lynn. “My son—Seamus—was killed by his father's hand. My husband fell to my own blade.”

Alistair sat up ramrod-straight. “ _What_?” He glanced at Elissa and shook his head, mystified. “Where do we _find_ these people?”

“Didn't the local militia imprison you for this act?” Elissa ignored Alistair's cheek, and addressed Lynn. She leaned forward in her chair, her elbows on her trousered knees. “The penalty for murder is execution. How did you escape this fate?”

“I _didn't_ escape. The Militia were at our home in two shakes of a nug's tail.” Lynn shuffled the baby to her other breast. The child made a satisfied grunting sound, and continued to feed. Lynn smiled at the babe before she sobered and turned her gaze to her Queen. “Do whatever you need to do with me, Majesties. I deserve my punishment...just like my husband did.”

“ _Did_ he,” Alistair said, as he cocked his head at the baby's nurse. “What did he do that merited his death?”

She pursed her lips, as she returned her gaze to the child. “I didn't know my husband was magically inclined until after he and I were married. Our marriage was arranged, so there was no way I _could_ have known he was an apostate that belonged to a profane cult until it was too late. He married me—and put Seamus in my belly—as sacrifices for his Rites.” Lynn's cheeks quivered. “My Seamus was born last month. My husband waited until the baby was healthy and strong and full of beans, and then he killed him.

“Before I even knew what he was doing, he took my son from my arms, and cut his throat over a crude altar he had set up in our kitchen. I sat on the floor, and rocked my son's corpse until he left us alone in the house. When he was gone, I plotted his murder. I waited for him to come home. He remained wary of me. I waited for three days for the wariness to go away. I knew it would. My husband was a bit of an addlebrain.

“When the wariness was gone, I waited until he fell asleep, and ran him through with my father's broadsword. When the Militia found him, he was still in bed, the sword run through right into the floor beneath the mattress.” She licked her lips. “His belly wound bled slowly, but festered immediately because of the lyrium folded into Father's blade. It took a long time for him to die. I was patient.”

“Maker have mercy,” said Alistair. His lip curled. “You're lucky you weren't lynched on the spot when the Militia arrived. Where did my Guardsmen find you?”

Lynn gazed at her regent with respect, but Alistair sensed she really wanted to look at him as if an extra head had grown out of his neck. “Your dungeons, my King. Where else?”

Elissa steepled her fingers, and touched the manicured tips to her mouth. She recalled the heavy sheaf of parchment that a harried scribe delivered to them yesterday. She had split the giant mountain of paperwork in half, and gave the smaller half to Alistair. She remembered this woman's order of execution. “Your execution was tomorrow, wasn't it?” said the Queen of Ferelden to this bedraggled woman-child.

“Yes, Majesty.” Lynn said, taken aback. “How did you know?”

The Queen leveled her gaze at the wet-nurse, and dropped the Royal Plural. “I signed your death-warrant.”

Lynn nodded. “Of course.” She touched the baby's head again, feather-soft. The child's hood fell aside, and her identification was fully bared to Lynn. Lynn gasped, then cooed at the child. “Oh! She is like an angel. What is her name?”  


“She...” Elissa looked at Alistair. “She has no name, not yet.” She glanced at her husband again. “She is a foundling, Lynn. She is not ours.”

“I knew that, Highness,” said Lynn, nodding. “Neither my Queen—nor our King—have Elvish blood.”

Alistair cleared his throat. He gave Elissa a long, meaningful look. She ignored him. “We have a proposition for you, Lynn,” said Elissa. “We are willing to offer you your life in exchange for your services as the child's wet-nurse... _and_ your silence. You will live here in the palace, of course, to better care for the foundling. You will be the child's wet-nurse, until she is weaned. When that happens, you will be free to go if you wish, with a full pardon as your reward for aiding the Throne.” Elissa held her hands out for the now-sleeping infant.

Before Lynn could give the child to Elissa, Alistair stood and strode jerkily to where his wife sat. He curled his hand around Elissa's bicep, and pulled her to her feet. “Pardon us, Lynn,” said Alistair to the wet-nurse, “but the Queen and I need to discuss something in private.” Alistair herded Elissa to the study's door, and through the open doorway.

When Alistair swept the door shut, he rounded on Elissa. His countenance was the color of an old bed-sheet, save for the hectic purple splotches staining his cheekbones. “You are willing to pardon a murderess, just to feed an unwanted foundling?” he hissed under his breath. The encircling hand around Elissa's arm tightened, as Alistair shook his wife. “Have you gone stark raving _mad_ , Elissa?”

She tore her arm from his grasp. “I have not, Alistair,” said Elissa through clenched teeth. “We have no choice in the matter. The child will die if she is not fed!”

Alistair's eyes flashed dangerously. “Why in Blazes do you care so much for this foundling, Elissa? She is not ours! You're ready to offer a full pardon to a convicted murderer in exchange for the care of a child I could _never_ acknowledge! To make matters worse, you do this without my consent at _all_. You may be Queen, Elissa...but it is only because you are the King's wife.” He pointed at Elissa. “I am your ally—your _friend_ , Elissa! Had you given me time to come to terms with this, I might have been more agreeable.” His chest heaved with anger. “Don't ever go over my head like that again. I may be a half-wit, but I am still your King.”

Never before had Alistair questioned Elissa's Queenship. Her jaw dropped to her breastbone. “You would shame me like this?”

He took his wife gently by the shoulders. “No. I don't want to pull rank with you. You are the reason I'm on the throne in the first place, but this is something we should discuss as a couple...as husband and wife.”

Elissa made an irritated noise in her throat. “I wish we had the luxury of that, Alistair. You've said it yourself. This child really _is_ a bargaining chip. What would happen to the shaky truce we have with Orlais, if this child died of malnutrition or neglect?”

Alistair's countenance paled further. “I...I never thought of that.” he said, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Maker's Shining Light.”

Sighing, Elissa motioned to the door. “It doesn't matter whether the baby is human or elven...or even if she is a half-dwarven Qunari Princess with lyrium poisoning and a club foot.” Elissa jabbed her finger at her chest, and then at Alistair. “She is _our_ charge, now...yours and mine! Once the child is old enough, and peace talk has begun between Ferelden and Orlais, we will discuss what to do with her. In the meantime, I'm taking steps to keep this child—and our _country_ —healthy. All right?”

“But the _girl_ ,” said Alistair. He raised his hand, palm up. “She is a murderer!”

“She is _necessary_ ,” said Elissa. Her mouth had the same stubborn cast that Alistair had seen a thousand times. He knew better than to argue with Elissa when she looked like that. “Again, once the child is weaned, we will be free of that trouble, and Lynn will be free as well. Agreed?”

The corners of Alistair's mouth drew down. “Agreed.”

Elissa turned to the door. Before she could push it open, Alistair seized her arm again. He drew her close. “I deserve an apology for the way you treated me,” he said, not unkindly. “You haven't been dismissed, either.”

Alistair locked eyes with his wife. Elissa smoldered with fury, but he did not bend...or drop his gaze. After many gravid moments, Elissa clenched her fists in frustration. She did not look away, even as humiliated blood crept from her collar to stain her face red. “I...cry your pardon, my King.”

“Speak not so, my Queen,” said Alistair. He shook his head, laughing. “I have a feeling I'm going to be paying for _this_ tomfoolery sooner or later.”

“Sooner, Alistair...like tonight,” said Elissa. She looped her arms around his waist. “I plan to punish you repeatedly, once Lynn has been moved to the nanny's apartments. You'll pay, until you beg me to stop.”

His lips curled into a lecherous grin, as he gathered Elissa to his chest. “Promise?”

“Yes.” Elissa nuzzled his jaw. “Thank you, Alistair.”

**4**

When Alistair and Elissa returned to the study, Lynn gave her King an admiring nod before tending to the child's napkin. Elissa caught sight of her approval, and ground her teeth. Oh, she wanted to collectively slap every female commoner up the sides of their heads. Why did every common woman find it normal—hell, even _acceptable_ —for men to treat the fairer sex with brutality and force?

When the child's swaddling was freshly wound, Lynn turned her over to the Queen with nary a word. Elissa cradled the sleeping infant close, and smiled at the baby.

Alistair watched his wife rock the baby, and felt his heart curdle. He knew this would happen, the second the elven baby came to be in their possession. He still had no idea how he would feel about it (and in his mind, he still called the baby 'it') in the coming days, weeks, and months. Alistair crossed his arms and thought about his religious training, many years ago.

Only the Maker knew what would be, in the future. Alistair had faith in Him, and His lessons. Perhaps this elven child was sent by the Maker, as a lesson in humility and understanding. Alistair only wished he knew why.

“Shall I show Lynn to her apartments?” said Alistair aloud to Elissa. She sat on the chaise now, fully absorbed by the baby. When she nodded without answering or even looking up, Alistair said, “Will you be joining us, too?”

“It's all right, Darling. I'll put the baby down for the night, so you can show Lynn to the nanny's apartments without me.”

“ _Tch._ Fine. See you tonight, I suppose.” Alistair stormed through the door, and Lynn followed. They didn't have very far to go. Lynn's new rooms were adjacent to the Royal Apartments.

Alistair pushed her door open, and spread his arms mock-expansively. “Your home...for now.”

She did not move to enter the apartment. She blushed furiously and gazed at her shapeless half-boots. “Can I speak freely, Your Majesty?”

“If this is about the child, and allowing my wife the pleasure of motherhood,” said Alistair, “then no. You may not. I've already made up my mind about the baby.”

She shook her head. “No. I've no right to ask about the foundling. It's _me_ that I wanted to ask about. You are wary of me.”

Alistair looked at her with candor. “Yes. Why would I _not_ be wary of you? You are a murderess, and your apartments are a hundred paces from where my Queen and I sleep. I'd be much happier if you didn't have to be here at all.”

Lynn nodded. “You're right, my King. I will go, if His Majesty wants it. I will go back to my cell in the dungeons and await my execution, if my King wishes it to be so.”

He gave the girl a flat, unfriendly stare. “Would that I could. I can't. I fear my Queen's wrath, more than a dagger between my shoulder-blades.” Alistair motioned to Lynn's rooms with his chin. “Make yourself comfortable, for the time being. You have experience caring for a baby, so I expect you to hop the second the baby calls you to care for it. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Majesty.” Alistair stepped back a pace or two, to allow Lynn to enter her rooms. She gasped at the spacious living quarters. “Maker,” she said, awe-struck, “this one room is bigger than my entire house.” She turned to face Alistair, and dropped into a deep curtsy. “You have my gratitude, Highness. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” said Alistair, his annoyance apparent. “Good night, Lynn.” He turned on his heel, and retired to his room for the night. He had a feeling it was going to be a long, _long_ year.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The head of the Royal Guardsmen, Lieutenant Meyer, had returned for the night, and toured the King's hallways. He prowled with the intensity of any man charged with ensuring the safety of his King and Queen. Alistair nearly ran into him on his way to bed. “Welcome back, Jason,” said Alistair. “All is well?”

“Of course, Majesty,” said Jason. The grounds are quiet, as always, and the Castle is secure. Do you wish anything from me, my Lord?”

Alistair nodded gravely. “Yes. I need a guard to be stationed at all times between the nanny's chambers and our own until further notice.”

Jason blinked at his King. “Is there anything I should be made aware of, Highness?” he asked slowly.

“No, not really.” Alistair hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Lynn's quarters. “We have new help in the Castle, and I just want everyone to be safe. Can it be done?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Jason. He thumped his breastplate, and loped off to attend to Alistair's orders.

Alistair watched him go, then turned his attention to Lynn's quarters again. He stared at her closed door for a long time, before retiring to his chambers for the night.

**5**

A fortnight after the baby's arrival, and twelve days after Lynn entered Alistair and Elissa's employ, the rider returned from Antiva, accompanied by the man he was sent to find. Together, they entered the castle and stood in the throne room, and awaited Court with the King and Queen of Ferelden.

When word reached Elissa that her guest had finally arrived, she dashed to the throne room. She burst through the heavy oak door, and ran full-tilt into Zevran. She threw her arms around her neck, and nearly squeezed the life out of him.

“Zev!” Elissa smiled hugely at her comrade before she engulfed him in another neck-breaking hug. “I'm so glad you're here!” She held him at arm's length, and silently took in (and approved of) his physical appearance.

Gone were his long, yellow locks and his oversized chain-linked belt and his silly, knee length leather man-skirt. The man who stood before her was still vital, but aged like a fine wine. Zev's golden hair had changed completely to silver. Zev sported the same ropy muscle that lay knotted under swarthy skin, but now his limbs had a latticework of crisscrossed scars—no doubt from his years of ascension through the most cut-throat band of thieves and murderers this side of Val Royeaux.

“Hello, my dear,” said Zevran in his lazy Antivan accent. He wrapped his arms around her hips. The leather breeches he wore creaked as he stood scandalously heart-to-heart with Elissa's. “Have you finally come to your senses, and decided to invite me to your bedroom? Or...have you sent for me to give dear Alistair some much-needed tips?” Zevran winked at Elissa, when the messenger nearly fainted from Zev's lack of propriety. “Tut-tut, Highness-ness. And after all this time, too...”

“You jest too much,” said Elissa, mock-scowling at her old friend. She dismissed the messenger, and glanced at two passing servants. “I can't talk about it here. Come with me. I have something to show you.”

“Show away,” said Zev. He looped one sinewy arm around Elissa's waist.

Grinning, Elissa disengaged herself from his embrace. “Race you,” she said. “Or have you aged so much that you couldn't keep up with me, Zev?”

“You've gotten pert in _your_ old age,” Zevran said with a rakish grin. “The day you beat _me_ in a footrace is the day they wind me in my burial shroud.”

“All right, then...follow!” Elissa twinkled at her old friend, and tore off through the open doorway behind her throne.

Zev stood a brief moment, laughing to himself. “She hasn't changed at all,” he said to no one in particular, as he sprinted after her.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Zevran sat at their heavily lacquered, dark-wood dining room table. His forearms rested on the table. The baby rested on Zev's forearms. Zev's incredulous stare rested on the baby.

“Maker's mercy,” he said quietly. “What do you plan to do now?”

“Well,” said Elissa, glancing at Alistair from the corner of one eye, “she stays with us, until the peace-talks end. Frankly, Zev, we're on the horns of a dilemma. Is it right to keep her from...from her...?”

“From her own kind, Elissa? _Tch_. I thought I knew you better than that.” Zev looked down at the baby, and stuck his tongue out at her. The baby smiled hugely at him. “What difference does it make who she stays with, as long as she's cared for?”

“I agree with you,” she said. “I think this child is fine, right where she is. It's my other half that is averse to the idea.”

Zev raised his eyebrows slightly and made a noise of understanding. “Mm. Alistair has always been a bit of a fuddy-duddy.”

“Can you please not talk about me as if I'm not here?” Alistair seized an ornate, priceless dining room chair, swung it around, and straddled it. “I'm not averse to the idea of her being here,” said he, rolling his eyes outrageously, “I simply can't accept her as my daughter, lack of blood-ties notwithstanding. She is a foundling—and as much as you two can beat your chests over your overly advanced thinking, she's _still_ an elf, and still considered the lower class.”

Zev waggled his head over the child. The baby reached out and clenched a handful of Zevran's hair in her chubby fist. The older elf winced, and tried to disengage the baby's hand from his locks. He gave up after the infant's hands proved to be stronger than Zev thought. As the child caught Zevran's finger in her free hand, he gazed at Alistair. “My dear friend, she may be a common, orphaned elf, but she represents something you could never have on your own. No matter how much you pooh-pooh about your bloodline and your throne and your duties to Ferelden, with this child you still have the opportunity to be what you've always _wanted_ to be. Correct me if I'm wrong, Alistair.”

Alistair leaned forward, and rested his forearms on the table. He pursed his lips, as his hands twined together. “No. You're not wrong. But I am King. I have bigger things to worry about beside myself.”

“ _Tcha_.” Zevran stood, and tucked the baby between his shoulder and his neck. “Do you habitually look gift horses in the mouth?” He jerked his gaze to Elissa. “Never mind. I know the answer to that question already.”

“Zevran,” said Alistair, a warning in his voice, “I did not call you here to chew old soup. When we were on the road during the Blight, what happened between we three is old news.”

The silver-haired elf nodded once. “Too true. Forgive me.” He strode to Elissa, and deposited the baby in her waiting arms. The infant yawned and smiled at Zevran again. He grinned back, and touched her downy brow with the tips of his fingers. “What a shame,” he said to himself. “She is lovely, this _melyanna_ given to you. Were I you, I would never let go.”

“ _Melyanna_? What does that mean?” said Elissa. “Is that Dalish?”

Zevran answered her question, while staring intently at Alistair. “The word itself is Elven...and its roots are as old as the day is long. _Melyanna_ means 'precious gift.' It is something you never let go of, nor is it something you question.” He nodded once to the King of Ferelden. “At the least, you should give your ' _anna_ a few weeks. Even when unexpected or unwanted, ' _anna_ tend to grow on you.”

Alistair looked away first. “I...thank you, Zevran.”

“Ahh, never mind,” said Zev, as he threw his hands up. “You are as stubborn now, as you were fifteen years ago.” He looked over his shoulder, and shrugged disarmingly at Elissa. “Personally, I don't think he'd know an ' _anna_ if it bit him—he's had so few gifts in his life, you see. Now...will you show me to my room? I do believe you have a lesson coming to you...”

Alistair stood suddenly, and walked stiffly to the wall directly behind his chair. He reached out to a rope pull, and yanked it without a word. Elissa twinkled at her husband, and said, “Zev...I'll have Lynn show you to your room. It is almost time for the baby to be fed, anyway.”

“Lynn?”

Elissa nodded. “The baby's wet-nurse. She does for the child what I cannot.”

Zev raised one eyebrow. “Is she anything like you?”

She shook her head in negation. “Not even a little bit, Zev. Be good, she is special to us.”

“Of course. I will be a perfect gentleman,” said Zevran. They waited for Lynn; and as the patter of the nurse's nimble feet tapped towards them, Alistair rose from his chair and walked to where Zevran and Elissa stood.

He gazed down at the baby in Elissa's arms, and fetched a deep sigh. While regarding the baby, he said, “I think Anna is a very nice name for a girl.” He raised his countenance and nodded to Elissa. “What do you think?”

Elissa smiled as her eyes misted. “Thank you, Alistair.”

Alistair's eyebrows drew together. He gazed at Elissa, his heart in his eyes. “Please, Elissa. Give me time with this. I need to come to terms with this on my own, at my own pace.” He backed away from Elissa and Zevran and the newly named Anna, and stepped through the dining room's ornate door without another word.


	4. For Us, Who Begin to Love

**1**

Snow-melt had begun to swell Ferelden's rivers, and the sun shone in the sky for longer intervals every day, when Zevran decided it was time to venture home. Elissa saw the wistfulness in his eyes whenever conversation veered toward Antiva; even Alistair noticed how pale Zev was beneath his swarthy complexion, after almost a month under a watery Winter sun.

Zevran told the regents of his voyage at supper, two days prior to his departure. “It's time,” he said, gesturing with his fork. “I've overstayed my welcome, as I normally do.”

“Hardly,” said Alistair. Elissa glanced at Zevran, and rolled her eyes. Alistair could never lie convincingly.

“'Tis true, my dear friend. I miss my Antiva. I'm long overdue.” He glanced up, and smiled rapaciously as Lynn entered the dining room with Baby Anna. Lynn turned scarlet, as she beheld Zevran. She handed Anna to Elissa, all the while keeping a steady eye on the assassin. Lynn glanced at Zev over one shoulder, almost fearfully, as she scampered out the dining room's door.

Zevran turned his gaze to Elissa, as if he wasn't distracted by the nanny for a second. “What I wouldn't give to spirit the Queen of Ferelden away to my Antiva City. You are so different from the women in Antiva, Lady. You would be like a splash of cream, in a sea of café au lait . You would be reminiscent of a sparkling clear diamond, resting on a bed of black velvet. You...”

“Maker's Breath,” said Alistair. He tossed his napkin next to his dinner plate. For the past few weeks, he was subjected to Zevran's half-joking come-ons to the Queen of Ferelden. Alistair had had enough, and was fit to be tied. Suddenly, he laughed...a strangled, false sound. “You are impossible, Zevran.”

The elf swept his silvered hair from his shoulder. “What can I say? I am a connoisseur of fine things. Your victory over me in the game of love has not changed that, my dear friend.”

Elissa looked from Zev to Alistair. She was moderately alarmed to find that, even though he tried to hide his anger, Alistair was obviously furious with Zevran. She quickly changed the subject. “Zev,” said Elissa, “I have something for you. Will you meet me in my conservatory in the morning?”

Her choice of words had the desired effect on Alistair. At the sound of 'conservatory', Alistair snorted into his supper. Elissa's conservatory, as it were, was nothing more than a miniscule greenhouse on the Keep's roof.

Zevran patted his lips with his napkin. He rose, and bowed deeply to King and Queen alike. “Of course, my dear. Right now, though, I shall take my leave. Good night.” He turned to the door Lynn had just walked through one moment prior, grinned, and followed suit.

They watched him go. “You don't think Zevran would disobey a direct order from the Queen of Ferelden, would he?” said Elissa to her husband.

“About leaving Lynn alone?” Alistair said mildly. He stabbed a slice of lamb on his plate. “Perish the thought.”

**2**

The day before his departure, Elissa met Zevran in her tiny conservatory. It was on the roof of the North Wing, by the cupola that leaned at a lazy angle.

For as long as she could remember, Elissa found solace and great joy in the cultivation of plants and flowers. It was the only thing she had enjoyed growing up that she still took part in...that didn't involve buckets of blood or dismemberment, that was.

The room itself wasn't large—ten feet square, at most. Elissa built it herself, and (forever winning Elissa's green heart) Alistair had managed to get his hands on one of the rarest of materials for her greenhouse. Glass wasn't precisely unheard-of in Ferelden, but most of the time it was costly and poorly-made. Still, Alistair surprised Elissa with enough near-peerless glass on their first anniversary to wall her entire hothouse...and to allow the master glazier he bought it from to retire early.

Elissa stood outside her hothouse, anticipating Zevran's arrival. She smiled at him as he approached the greenhouse, and wrapped her cloak tight against an errant gust of wintry wind. “You'll find it much nicer inside, Zev,” she said to the Crow, “so why don't we check on my pomegranates?”

Zevran cocked his head at Ferelden's warrior-Queen. “Oh! Is that why you called me here?” He sidled closer to Elissa, and grinned winsomely. “As much as I like pomegranates, I thought you bade me here to have me all to yourself.”

“I called you here,” said Elissa, crooking a sardonic eyebrow, “to ask something of you...and it has nothing to do with sex.”

“Pity,” tutted Zev. He grasped the greenhouse's door-handle.

When he opened the door, Zevran inhaled sharply the scents of Elissa's greenhouse, and smiled rapturously. Elissa hid her own smile behind her hand. She knew her greenhouse would have this effect on Zev. In it, Elissa cultivated—among other things—Antivan orchids and sweet honeysuckle. The air inside was warm and humid and fragrant, in opposition to outside's biting-cold temperature.

“Ahh,” said Zev. “Elissa...thank you for this. For a second, I thought you had magically transported me to Antiva.”

“You're welcome,” said Elissa, her eyes sparkling. “I knew you'd like it.”

“So,” said Zevran, as he buried his face in a pot of orchids, “what was it you wanted to ask of me?”

Elissa picked up an oversized watering can and tipped it over an enormous flowering Elfroot bush. She spoke to Zevran without looking at him. “Will you be crossing the Waking Sea and the Free Marches, on your travels to Antiva?”

The dusky elf shook his head, pursing his lips. “No. I have a few stops to make...business, you see.” He didn't have to elaborate, nor did he want to. Elissa was well-aware that Zevran was a master assassin. To know more about his activities would risk much. “I would have taken care of these...erm, things, on my way here—but your call was urgent, so I put off what could wait in Orlais.”

“Orlais...really.” Elissa nodded. “That is fortuitous.”

He glanced up from the orchid plant, his gaze on the far wall. “You knew I had business in Orlais, Lady Elissa.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “What is it you need from me there?”

“Information,” she said. “I'd like to know what Celene is planning. When she sent Anna to us, she had some ulterior motives, I'm sure. Can you keep an eye on the Imperial Palace?”

“I can do better than that,” Zev replied. “There are five or six of my top assassins in Val Royeaux as we speak. They'll be bored to tears, but I can set them up as courtesans and minstrels in Empress Celene's Court. You know how these empty-headed nobles love it when intrigue lights up their hollow little lives.”

“No doubt,” said Elissa, laughing. She looked up from her man-sized Elfroot plant, and her breath caught when Zevran stood a hairsbreadth from her.

Zevran's hand rose, and brushed Elissa's hair from her face. All traces of joviality were gone from Zev's countenance. He plucked the watering can from Elissa's slack hands, and wrinkled his brow distractedly. “And how are you willing to pay for this service, Milady?”

“Zev,” said Elissa, caution trembling in her normally sure voice. She slowly shook her head. “That bird has flown.”

“I can help you with something else, in repayment,” he said, placing the can on Elissa's workbench with a hollow _thunk_. He continued as if Elissa never had spoken. “Alistair need not know...it would be my gift to you...to you both.”

Understanding dawned in Elissa's eyes; when she opened her mouth to vehemently protest, Zevran raised one finger to her lips. “Half-elven children are born with human characteristics. He'll never be wiser.”

The regent blinked. “Until the child is born with swarthy skin, Zev... _tcha!_ What's gotten into you?” Elissa scoffed, shaking her head. She couldn't _believe_ she just considered his offer, even for a second. “I made my choice fifteen years ago, and you bowed out gracefully. Why are you doing this _now_?”

The lithe elf stood heart-to-heart with Ferelden's Queen, and cradled her face between his palms. Zev leaned forward, and touched his lips to hers. Elissa tried to pull away, but ultimately her body melted to his, almost against its will. Zevran sucked her lower lip into his mouth, as Elissa's hands went from pushing at his chest to stealing around his waist.

After a moment, Zevran broke the kiss. Without releasing Elissa, he said, “I am forever in your thrall. Whatever you ask of me, I shall do, and without question.” He touched his forehead to Elissa's brow. “All except one thing. You asked me to stop loving you fifteen years ago. You do so again.” He shook his head. “This I will never do.”

He released Elissa, and backed away from her. “I shall stay in touch...to deliver information, of course.” Zevran tipped her a wink, as he opened the hothouse's door and sidled through it. “Will you see me away, the evening after next?”

“Yes, of course,” said Elissa. “I will be there...and my husband, as well.”

Zevran's eyes danced, as he twinkled at Elissa. “Of course. See you then.”

**3**

Twilight, on a Winter's eve.

Alistair knelt before the murky moat that surrounded his castle, made to feel addled and a bit strange under a purple, alien sky. He took a deep breath, and tasted heavy snow on the wind; he felt rapid change come on the very air he breathed.

He knelt by the water's edge, and blinked slowly at his reflection. “I never thought my life would take a turn such as this,” Alistair said to his reflection. He didn't expect his reflection to answer, and of course it didn't. It never had before, so he wasn't surprised when it remained silent.

The castle loomed above his silent palaver with himself. Alistair glanced up at what he knew to be his and Elissa's chambers. The rooms were silent, dark. Nary a sound emanated from the dark granite walls of their Keep. It slumbered in the deepening gloom of encroaching night. He turned his gaze back to the glassy surface of the moat, and the water was like a great sheet of obsidian. His scarred fingers touched the unblemished surface, and the illusion of solidity vanished with each concentric ring on the water.

When the ripples dissipated, only Alistair's face remained there, mirrored back. As he watched the wavelets smooth out over his unlined cheeks, his reflection's mouth curled up at the corners.

Alistair's breath caught in his throat, as his hands reached up to search for the expression on his own visage. When he could not find it, his reflection shook his head slowly.

“Never mind that,” said his reflection. “Just _what_ , exactly, are you looking for here?”

At a loss, Alistair sat back on his haunches. His movements felt slow, stupid. “What _are_ you?”

“ _You_ , of course,” said his reflection, as a burly arm shot from the surface of the water. A scarred, powerful hand twined itself in Alistair's hair, and yanked. Before he knew it, he tumbled into the moat, faced with a horror beyond his understanding.

In the darkness of his watery imprisonment, a pair of red, glowing eyes stared balefully at him. His doppelganger grinned with malice, as Alistair struggled against what felt like a thousand arms encircling his chest, his arms, his legs. He could not move, could not breathe...and he could not look away from those dimly luminous eyes.

“What are you looking for, Alistair? Were you searching for yourself?” The malign Alistair doppelganger snorted derisive laughter. “You can stop searching—for here I am. I am _you_ , Alistair.”

“ _Nngh_!” said Alistair, as he struggled fruitlessly against his invisible bonds. They held fast, but that did not stop Alistair from writhing in its grasp.

_O Maker,_ he said to himself, as his heart beat a rapid tattoo in his ears, his train of thought a mad jumble of fear and pain behind his eyes. _O Maker in all His glory help me...my chest it burns...Maker make the black roses go away...I can't see I can't breathe ah Maker Elissa help me SAVE ME ELISSA PLEASE..._

“Sorry, my friend,” said the malefic, ghostly double, “but you'll need to find your way out of this on your own...to find your _strength_ on your own. You've come to terms with your taint. You've come to terms with the stigma of _bar sinister_. You can come to terms with _this_ new paradigm, can't you? You live under my shadow every single day, so now I am all you know. Why is it that you cannot see past pride, to the gift that has been given to you?”

Alistair swallowed fetid, swampy water, and fought with his own body as the inevitable began. He beheld his body-double, as his hair floated before his dimming sight. He shook his head vehemently, to clear his eyes and to disagree with the abomination wrapped around him.

The doppelganger shrugged gamely. “Pride goeth before the fall, Alistair,” it said, a charming grin creasing its chops.

_Alistair...?_

“ _Nn...unngh_!” said Alistair, as a dark curtain fell over his sight.

The doppelganger tutted distractedly, even as its many chitinous arms wrapped tighter around Alistair's midsection. “Stubborn, aren't you?”

Alistair tried to scream his defiance, then; he tried to bellow to the entire world his resistance to this new, unwanted change, but there was no air left to scream with.

_Alistair...? Alistair!_

“Suit yourself,” said Pride, as Alistair hung lifeless in its unyielding embrace. “But this just won't go away. Don't let your neck get so stiff that it'll break in the first brisk wind that comes along.”

_...up, you have to wake up, Alistair, please! Just..._

“Wake up, Alistair!”

Small, sure hands shook him roughly out of his troubled sleep. His eyes flew wide open, and he pulled an agonized, heaving gasp—unmindful that he had held his breath in his sleep. Alistair let his pent-up breath out gustily, then heaved another gasping breath. He blinked once, his chest heaving miserably, before he tipped his gaze upward to behold Elissa.

She hovered above his supine form, her eyes full of dread. Her hands were splayed on his chest, shaking him back from Nod. One of her trembling hands brushed his tumbled hair out of his face. “Another nightmare?”

Alistair nodded slowly, licking his lips. He rolled his eyes shut, panting, as he drew the coverlets he had kicked free over his now-frozen body. “Yes. I...yes. I'm all right, now.”

Elissa clambered into bed, and slid beneath the fine down comforters. “Truly?”

“I...” began Alistair, as he reached across the vast expanse of their goosedown mattress to seize Elissa's hips. “I need you to lie close to me,” he said. Elissa slid her body nearer to Alistair. He turned over, curled his body into a tight fetal ball, and Elissa pressed her belly into his back.

They lay that way for many silent minutes, until: “Elissa? That was...horrifying.”

The Queen hooked her arm across her husband's chest. “Do you want to talk about it, Alistair?”

He shuddered in the wake of his dream. “No.” He turned over to face Elissa. “I just want to be close enough to you to convince myself I'm really awake.”

“All right,” Elissa said, amiably enough. She rested her hand on his hip, and buried her face in the dip between his shoulder and neck. Alistair sighed, and ran his hands over Elissa's body. He, despite being scared nearly to death by a double-cursed nightmare, felt himself harden when Elissa's naked body pressed against him. Their close proximity to one another allowed Elissa to feel it as well.

Alistair glanced down at his erection, and chuckled despite himself. “Seems like I was scared stiff, huh?”

The half-hearted joke did not produce the giggles he expected from Elissa. Her expression remained sober. “So it would seem, yes.”

He wrapped his arms around his wife's shoulders. Alistair's gaze settled upon Elissa's countenance. “Let me in, please?” Touched, she nodded her reluctant acquiescence. Alistair gently pushed Elissa to her back.

Alistair covered Elissa's body with his own. “I love you, Elissa,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Elissa echoed, and thought about what had transpired that morning in her conservatory. She did nothing except—for a mere moment—allow Zevran to kiss her and hold her close to his body. It wasn't cuckoldry...

... _was_ it?

She spread her legs to allow Alistair entrance. He smiled at Elissa for one scant moment, and she nearly cringed at the sick, terrified quality of it. He reached between her legs, and slipped two fingers inside Elissa. Elissa sighed, and raised her hips to give Alistair purchase. He knew just where to touch Elissa; from years of experience, he intimately knew every inch of her body.

Alistair stroked that which was warm and wet, and again Elissa's traitorous mind rewound time. She remembered once upon a time, when it wasn't only Alistair's embrace she enjoyed. She remembered arms wrapped around her that were as lithe as her own, legs that were the tiniest bit shorter than hers. She took a deep breath, and her overtaxed mind could still smell dark, dusky skin redolent of sandalwood and moist earth and blood.

Elissa pressed her lips to her husband's, as his free hand slipped under her hips, drawing her closer. He ran his tongue over her lips, parting them. When Alistair plunged his tongue into her mouth, Elissa bent her body into a mild arc. Her climax was as sharp and bright and fleeting as a Summerday Night's firecracker. Her ecstatic cry was reduced to a mild vibration against Alistair's lips. She pressed her body to Alistair's, and rode the waves of pleasure, and Alistair held her. Some moments later, Elissa began to pull away, exhausted.

Smiling faintly, he withdrew from her embrace. Alistair knelt behind Elissa, as she rolled to her hands and knees on the fine down mattress. Elissa stretched her arms out above her head and rested her cheek on her forearm. She glanced over her shoulder at her husband. She winked, and wiggled her fanny at Alistair. When Alistair saw her playfulness, he favored Elissa with his first genuine smile since his nightmare, and grasped her inviting hips.

Without any preamble, Alistair knee-walked closer, took hold of himself with one sure and steady hand, and slid into Elissa. There was no expectation of hours of lovemaking on Elissa's part, not tonight. Their tryst would be as short and sharp as a shooting star, and Elissa knew it. She didn't mind. This closeness was something Alistair needed to feel like himself again. They had gotten used to that aspect of life together.

Nightmares were a regular part of their existence. As Wardens, their sleep was regularly plagued with terrors, due to the taint in their blood—even after the death of the Archdemon. Through the force of their will, they kept those terrors at bay. Every once in a while, an errant nightmare slipped past their iron grip. It was a fact of life for them, and they didn't make any issues out of it.

“Aaah,” said Alistair, as he rolled his hips; he had a beatific, hazy expression on his face. “Yes, Elissa...oh, my love. My Elissa...aaah...”

Alistair grimaced once, as his hips surged forward. He grunted once, sharply, and climaxed. He threw his head back, reveling in the throes of his orgasm.

When he sank his consciousness back into his body, Alistair uncoupled from Elissa, and spooned with her. He kissed the nape of her neck as one arm stole around her shoulders. “Thank you, Elissa,” he said muzzily. He had already begun to fall asleep again.

Elissa smiled faintly to herself, and planted a tiny kiss on Alistair's hand. “Sleep well, love,” she said quietly.

She fell asleep, thinking about Antiva.

**4**

In the three or so months between the day Anna came to stay at the Royal Keep and the night the King sought out Eamon for the last time, Elissa found herself hip deep in motherly duties. She could not nurse her foster daughter, of course, but she could certainly be Anna's primary caretaker.

The morning before Zevran's departure, Elissa and Lynn sat in the baby's nursery while Lynn nursed Anna. They chatted amiably about Denerim's current events and Court, and played Lynn's favorite game: 'What-If'. Because she never enjoyed the luxuries of the nobility, Lynn loved to speculate about far-away lands and their customs, and what it would be like to live there. Today's game was about Val Royeaux.

“I've heard so many wonderful things about Orlais,” said Lynn, as she sat Baby Anna up in her lap. She patted the baby's back briskly. “The fashion that comes from there is to die for.”

“You don't know the half of it,” said Elissa. She smiled fondly. “A dear old friend of mine lived in Val Royeaux for most of her life. She had an almost unworldly fondness for the shoes there. The last time I heard from her, Leliana sent me an entire chest full of the latest styles.” She stuck her foot out, and waggled it so the bells sewn deftly to the slipper's toe jingled.

Lynn giggled. “Personally, I'm fond of the purple ones that lace up your calves. The orange silk ribbons are so lovely.”

The two women glanced at each other, and laughed merrily. Baby Anna jiggled on Lynn's lap, belched thunderously, and goggled at her nursemaid with an almost comical expression of surprise and annoyance. She knit her finely made eyebrows together, and said, “Bweh!”

“Sorry, Princess,” said Lynn. She touched her finger to the tip of the baby's nose, and Anna gurgled for her nanny. “I think it's time you went to your mother. You're due for your nap, anyway.”

As Elissa took Baby Anna, she reflected on the past few months, and silently thanked the Maker for sending Lynn their way. In those few months, Elissa had forged a tentative bond with the baby's round little nursemaid.

As the horrors she had to endure began to fade into her past, Lynn's personality shone past her _Sturm und Drang_ outlook on life. Elissa found that Lynn was almost as stubborn as she was. Lynn had a terrible temper with anyone that tried to cross her...but not with Anna. Never Anna, for in Lynn's eyes, the sun rose and set on the tiny foundling. To Elissa's endless merriment, she found that Lynn was (if it was even possible) an even worse cook than Alistair, when Lynn nearly burned the East Wing's kitchens to the ground attempting to cook cereal for the baby.

Elissa shuffled Anna to her customary spot, high on her left shoulder. The baby snuffled against Elissa's finely made cotton sark, before she dropped her head on her Mama's shoulder and promptly went to sleep. The women shared laughter again.

“Milady,” said Lynn, “as a Teryna, did you enjoy finery such as you do now?”

The Queen twisted her lips into a dry smirk. Even if tortured, Lynn would never agree to drop the honorifics. 'Milady' was as close as Lynn would get to familiarity. Elissa stopped trying to break Lynn from that habit, after it proved to be a fruitless task. “Somewhat,” said Elissa. “I had a favorite perfume that I wore—that I _still_ wear, as a matter of fact. Alistair manages to find a bottle of it every once in a while for me, Maker bless him. But besides that...when I was young, I would much rather climb trees and spar with the Keep's guards than wear fine silk gowns and play at tea parties.”

Lynn blew a snort of laughter. “When I was young, I would have tea parties and pretend _I_ was the Queen.” She shrugged, as she rearranged her flowing cotton camise. “I never in my wildest dreams expected to _be_ in the Queen's employ when I grew up, not then.”

Silence fell. Elissa smiled to herself. For all she knew, Lynn could be referencing last year, when she spoke of her childhood. It was one of the girl's idiosyncrasies, so Elissa made little issue of it. Lynn played with the hem of her shirt, as she tussled with what she really wanted to talk to her Queen about. “Erm...Lady Elissa?”

“Yes, Lynn?”

“Do...do you know when Mister Zevran is leaving for Antiva?” Lynn's round face tuned scarlet. “I wanted to...say farewell to him before he left.”

“Hah,” said Elissa dryly. “You want to do more than say goodbye, I'll wager.”

Lynn's flush deepened, even through her gamine grin. “Mayhap I do, Milady.”

“ _I ought to kill him_ ,” chuckled Elissa darkly, _sotto voce_. To Lynn, she said: “He is leaving tonight. I wouldn't get too attached to Zevran, Lynn. He is a free spirit.”

“I know...but I couldn't stop myself,” said Lynn. “I needed what he was willing to offer me.” Lynn glanced at Elissa, and a dark, embarrassed flush escaped the collar of her billowing camise. She stared at her hands. “I'm...not beautiful or trim like you are, Milady...”

When Elissa opened her mouth to protest, Lynn shook her head adamantly. “Forgive me, Milady. I wish to tell you this, because I trust no one else.”

Taken aback, Elissa cocked her head at the diminutive girl. “Of course, Lynn. Forgive me.”

“Mister Zevran was just like Iain,” continued Lynn. Iain was her husband. “Not in the sense that he was destructive, but that he was the same as Iain in that private way men are.” Lynn motioned to her crotch, then scratched at her cheek, flustered. “He was as skilled as Iain, and he didn't mind that I look like...well, like this,” she said, and swept her hands down her buxom chest and rotund little belly. “Mister Zevran told me he adored plump women just as much as he liked any other kind of woman...or man.

“Lady Elissa?” said Lynn, after a moment's thought. “Is it true that Mister Zevran likes men too? Really and truly?”

Elissa nodded. “Yes. Does that bother you?”

Lynn's small white hands rose to her rosebud mouth, to cover the tiny smile that suddenly bloomed there. “Not really,” she said.

The Queen glanced at Lynn askance. She rose, and placed the sleeping baby in her bassinet. When Elissa returned to her favorite easy chair, Lynn had gotten her emotions under control—but a ghost of that small smile still lingered at the corners of her mouth. Elissa sat herself, and pinned Lynn to her own chaise with a piercing glare. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Lynn, her shoulders raising the tiniest bit. “Except once, Mister Zevran mentioned being fond of His Majesty... _very_ fond of His Majesty.”

Chuckling, Elissa raised her eyebrows. “Zev never hid his desires. He did think Alistair was worth a romp or two, back when we traveled during the Blight.”

“He _still_ does, Milady,” said Lynn.

The women cackled loudly enough to cause the baby to fuss angrily in her bassinet. When their snorts of hilarity died down, the Queen continued. “I'm sure he still finds Alistair attractive...but he'd never do anything to him. Alistair would probably kill Zev if he tried.”

“Like His Majesty nearly did when he found out about Milady and Mister Ze...” Realization dawned in Lynn's eyes, as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She blanched when she understood the implications of what she had just told her Queen. Her hands stole to her traitorous, flapping mouth.

Elissa's breath caught in her throat. “Did Zev tell you this?” When Lynn burst into terrified tears, Elissa had her answer. “He _did_ , didn't he...when did he tell you this?” Her nostrils turned white. “Last night during pillow talk, I imagine?”

She quailed from the Queen's wrath, shrinking back into the cushions of her chaise. “Oh! Your Majesty! Forgive me...I didn't mean...”

Elissa rose from her chair, and paced the nursery. “Never mind the apologies, Lynn. It is ancient history.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and pensively stared out the room's window. “That _is_ privileged information, Missy. I expect you'll never speak of this to anyone, correct?”

“ _Never_ , Majesty. I swear this to you, on Anna's very soul I swear it.” Lynn burst into fresh tears. “Oh, I'm in trouble, Mister Zevran's in trouble...I'm so sorry!” She wrung the hem of the smock that protected her clothing, and raised it to her face. She sobbed fitfully into it.

Elissa sat herself in her soft armchair again, watched Lynn have her meltdown, and was reminded that, despite the enormous responsibilities bestowed upon the girl, she _was_ still only sixteen years old....nearly a baby herself, despite what Ferelden's customs dictated. Elissa tutted under her breath. She stood, and touched Lynn's shoulder. When Lynn looked up from her smock's hem, Elissa smiled gently.

“It looks like you could use a nap, too,” she said to Lynn. “If the baby needs to be fed, I'll call for you. In the meantime, why not get some shut-eye before you go say...'goodbye'...to Zev tonight?”

“Yes, Majesty,” said Lynn. She daubed her eyes with the hem of her smock and rose, nearly tripping over her own feet in an attempt to escape as quickly as she could. She curtsied to Elissa, and fled to her quarters.

Tapping her foot, Elissa watched her go. She sucked at her teeth in anger. “Thanks kindly, Zev,” she said to the nearly empty nursery.

5

That evening, Zevran readied himself for his trip home. Alistair and Elissa saw him to the great double-doors of the castle. Elissa threw her arms around Zevran's neck in her usual ebullient way. When she released him, she said, “Be well, Zevran. And keep in touch with me. You know why.”

“Why all the secrecy?” asked Alistair.

Zevran gazed at Elissa incredulously. The Queen of Ferelden asked the leader of the Antivan Crows to keep surveillance active on the Empress of Orlais...and refused to tell her husband about it? Zevran laughed inwardly. Outwardly, he said, “My dear Alistair...what fun would an affair be, if you knew of it?”

Alistair bristled. “Your sense of humor is as sharp as always, Zev,” he said through grated teeth.

“Who's joking...? Ah,” said Zevran, as he caught sight of Anna's nursemaid. “My dear Lynn. Have you come to see me off, as well?” He held the blond woman's chin between finger and thumb, and dimpled at the buxom girl.

Lynn simpered at Zevran. She slowly pulled her chin out of his gentle embrace, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “What we did was for fun...I know that. But I have to tell you something—since you and I shared something private, I feel we can talk freely. Right?”

“I...suppose so,” said Zev warily.

She smiled sweetly, and leaned close so that no one but Zev was privy to Lynn's words. “I'm loyal to my King, and his Queen. Don't play them false, I beg you.” She wrapped her arms around Zev's slim waist, and said aloud, “Call on me the next time you visit. You really _were_ fun.”

Zevran's mouth dropped open. He glared at Lynn, an angry flush seeping from his collar. He suddenly laughed fit to split, as he gave the diminutive nanny a brusque hug. “All right.” He brought his full lips to Lynn's ear. “ _I keep my_ own _counsel, Dearie,_ ” he whispered into her ear.

Lynn suddenly found her feet very interesting. She nodded once, crimsoning, and took her leave. The three friends watched her go. When Zevran turned his gaze back to the royals, he caught a smug, self-satisfied grin from Alistair.

Zev nodded to himself. “And on that note...”

**6**

After Zevran departed for Orlais, Alistair and Elissa fairly dropped when bedtime came around. Not long after they had finally gone to sleep, Alistair was woken from his deepening slumber to the sound of the baby's wails. He grunted, and turned over to shake Elissa's shoulder. “Wake up. The baby needs you.”

“ _Unnh_. It sounds like she needs changing, Alistair. That wouldn't be too hard for you to do on your own, would it?” Elissa glanced over her shoulder, and gave Alistair the hairy eyeball. “Anna hasn't slept longer than three hours at a time for weeks. She's run Lynn and I ragged. Do me this one favor, please?”

The babe caterwauled into the darkness of the wee hours, and Alistair grimaced. “Do I _have_ to?”

_That's_ it _,_ thought Elissa, as she dragged the comforter over her bare shoulder, _this nonsense of his_ has _to stop._ “Don't test my patience, Husband,” she growled.

“Fine.” Alistair kicked the comforter to Elissa's side of the down mattress, and hauled his aching carcass out of bed. He grabbed his linen trousers, and savagely pulled them over his hips. As he tied the thong into a soon-to-be-tangled knot, Alistair stomped to their boudoir's entry and tore the oaken door open so hard it banged against the far wall. “I'll be back,” Alistair grumped, as he swept the door shut.

“Crabby-boots,” said Elissa, as she immediately fell asleep again.

**7**

He nearly ran full-force into Lynn, as she groggily shuffled to tend to Baby Anna. She gasped, and turned scarlet when she realized it wasn't Elissa she nearly ran into. “Your Majesty! Forgive me.”

Unbeknownst to Lynn, Alistair was privy to her entire whispered conversation with Zevran. Not only did it do his old heart proud to find that his subjects had faith in him, he felt a large measure of satisfaction when Zevran had been put in his place—even if it was only for a moment. For the first time in many weeks, Alistair glanced at Lynn without wanting to sneer at her.

“Don't,” said Alistair, as he raised his hands to eye level. “You don't have to call me that, Lynn.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he favored Lynn with his first genuine smile.

Lynn returned the warmth, almost against her will. “Apologies, Majesty...”

“ _Tcha._  It's Alistair, Lynn...repeat it after me. Ahh...lee...sterr. I don't call you High Lady Wet-Nurse, do I?”

A snort of mirth escaped from Lynn's lips, unbidden. “ _No_ one does...Lord Alistair.”

“Well, good,” said Alistair, shaking his head ruefully. “I don't want to be the only one to call you by such a silly name...so don't bother with the 'His Majesties' and the 'Your Highness' in private. I suppose 'Lord Alistair' is as good as I'm going to get.” Anna must have sensed they stood just on the other side of her nursery door, and redoubled her cries. Alistair hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the nursery. “Let me...ah, let me take this. She doesn't sound hungry.”

Nodding, Lynn appraised Alistair. “You're learning what Anna needs. I'm impressed—most fathers _never_ figure it out.” She smiled impishly at her King. “If you're willing to take care of Anna, then I'll go back to bed. I'm exhausted.”

“All right.” Alistair stepped through the nursery door, and was greeted by his foster-daughter's wails. He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. He approached Anna's crib, and lifted the babe from it. Alistair rolled his eyes. Anna, her swaddling, and her bedding were sopping wet.

“Maker,” said Alistair. “How much do you possibly eat, to cause _this_ much mess?” He clumsily changed her napkin and swaddling, and set the infant in her bassinet to change the crib bedding. When all was set to rights, he lay the child in her crib, and turned to leave.

Anna wanted none of that. She waved her tiny fists about her head, and screeched into the night. Alistair rocked his head back, muttered a vile oath, and stepped back into the room.

He returned to the crib, and lifted a now-bawling infant from it. He walked about the nursery, joggling the baby in his arms and hopping on his feet. He combed his memory for the various ways one calms a screaming infant. Elissa told him, on more than one occasion, but he let the information go into one ear and out the other. When it came to the baby, his mind was like a sieve.

Oh, wait. _Singing,_ he thought to himself. _Right, right._ ' _Lissa once said that singing to the baby could soothe it._ Alistair couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but that didn't deter him in the slightest. He cleared his throat, and sang: “Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey, a kiddley divey too, wouldn't youuuu...”

Anna goggled silently at Alistair for one single shining moment—in fact, she stared at him as if he were the stupidest man alive—before she opened her mouth and wailed fit to wake the dead. Alistair groaned, and lifted Anna higher on his shoulder. He rubbed her back, and racked his mind, and couldn't think of a blasted thing to do.

The baby snuffled against Alistair's bare shoulder, and molded herself to his chest. Anna's little head fit, just so, in the cleft between his shoulder and his neck. She sighed once, and settled down.

Alistair frowned at Anna, as she reached up and clutched the chain his Joining pendant hung on in one chubby fist. Anna refused to go to sleep, but she remained calm. Mystified, Alistair sat down on Lynn's nursing chaise, and cradled Anna in one arm. He propped his elbow on the cushioned back, and dropped his cheek into his palm.

Alistair looked at Anna. Anna calmly looked back.

He cocked his head at the baby. She stuffed her fist into her mouth.

Alistair sighed. “What are we going to do with you?”

Anna smiled at Alistair.

His breath caught. He blinked at Anna, and tentatively he felt the corners of his own mouth turn up into a grin. Anna saw this and smiled again, her hazel-and-bloodwood eyes sparkling.

“Are you smiling for me, Little One?” Alistair's lips curled again, incredulously. “Your Mama will be _so_ pleased to hear that. You are a sweet thing...when you aren't vomiting or pissing on me.”

“Eeeh,” said Anna.

“Do tell,” said Alistair, raising an eyebrow. “Care to talk about Court matters with me, Princess?”

“Eeeh!” said Anna. She smiled; smacked her lips a few times; smiled again.

“I see!” Alistair smiled again, and Anna followed suit. “And what do you propose we should do then, Anna?”

Anna's tiny cupid's bow mouth drooped at the corners. She mewled for a moment and smacked her lips again. Her eyes filled with easy tears.

“Uh-oh,” said Alistair. “You're not hungry again, are you?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Lynn from the doorway.

Alistair looked up warily. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to watch you begin bonding with your daughter,” said Lynn. “But I have to feed her, unless you want Anna to wake up half the Castle. She runs on a very tight schedule. You can set your watch and warrant to her.” She bustled into the room, and held her hands out for Anna. Alistair handed Anna to Lynn. The wet-nurse loosened her nightdress's laces, and offered the baby her breast.

Normally Alistair would have beat a hasty retreat once Anna began nursing. This time, however, Alistair gazed frankly at Lynn's bent head. “Lynn?”

“Yes, Milord?”

“I...” Alistair sighed once. “I'm glad you're here. You've done for us what Elissa could not. My wife appreciates you—and for that, I am grateful.”

“Thank you, Milord.” Lynn shrugged. “I know you heard me talking to Mister Zevran. I didn't lie to him earlier. I'm forever loyal to you and Lady Elissa. That'll never change. My King and Queen have given me a gift that couldn't ever be repaid.” She smiled down at Anna's head. “She won't replace Seamus, but when Anna's close to me, she helps make the pain go away.”

Alistair thought about his long-dead son and daughter. He nodded his agreement.

Lynn raised her head, and inclined her chin at Alistair. “You are exhausted, Milord. I will take care of things here. Get rest, and enjoy your daughter in the morning. Lady Elissa will be thrilled at the idea.”

Alistair rubbed at his red-rimmed eyes, and yawned. “Of course, Lynn. Good night.” Alistair ran his hand over his sleep-rumpled hair. He walked to Lynn and Anna, and stood over them. Alistair reached out, and touched the top of Anna's head. As he did so, he looked up at Lynn, and nodded. “Thank you.”

He walked to the nursery's door, pushed it open, and took his leave...and did not see the arch way Lynn smiled at his retreating back.


	5. Full Circle

**1**

Since the arrival of the fosterling, Alistair's thoughts turned increasingly to his own parentage. Oh, he knew who his father was— _everyone_ knew he was Maric's bastard—but he had no real idea who his mother was. He had been told that she was a servant in Eamon's employ, and that Goldanna was her older daughter. It was very pat. Everything locked together just so, but something still didn't sit right with Alistair. He thought that it was all _too_ pat. All the pieces seemed to be there, but they didn't fit as well as they should have.

Alistair sat on his throne, and listened with one ear to Court proceedings. The Arl of—what _was_ this old, doddering man the Arl of, anyway?—droned on and on about the state of his lands and how much help he needed from the Crown to put his affairs in order.

Shifting uncomfortably on his gilded chair, Alistair sighed, and let Elissa take care of the political end of things today. He understood them well enough, but his head was too full of his own thoughts to even bother giving Court his full attention.

He leaned back, crossed one ankle over his knee, and sucked at his teeth. Since Anna's less-than-stellar arrival at the Castle, Alistair's mind had become a mad jumble of confused images and conflicting emotions. As the days wore on, just as winter had given way to spring, Alistair and Anna had begun to forge a tentative bond. It was tenuous at best...but even the most gossamer of connections was a lot better than nothing at all, in Alistair's opinion.

The baby had surprised Alistair—and herself—with her first belly laugh last night. He learned that repetitive games were Anna's favorites, much to his dismay. He knew that it was good stimuli for Anna, but he could feel his own brain turn to currant jam every time they played Peek Baby or—Anna's personal favorite—Choke Alistair With His Own Pendant.

He grinned, despite himself. When the Arl of Whatever-the-Hell gave him a confused, odd look, Alistair cleared his throat. He excused himself, citing sudden malaise. Let Elissa take care of these aggravating nobles. He had some thinking to do.

**2**

The evening before, Anna had lain on Elissa and Alistair's fine goose-down mattress, her arms and legs waving with excitement. Alistair had knelt above the baby, and covered his face with his hands. “Peek, baby!” he said for what had felt like the fiftieth time that hour, and took his hands away from his face.

“Anh!” said Anna excitedly. She grinned hugely for Alistair, and he responded in kind. Even if he tired of the game, he found that he didn't tire of Anna's simple joy.

Smiling, he covered his face again, and again he whipped his hands away. “ _Peek_ , baby!”

Anna screeched her happiness, followed by the biggest, loudest belly-laugh Alistair had ever heard. It had startled him, but not nearly as much as it had startled Anna. After the sound had erupted from her mouth, Anna's eyes had bulged from her face, and the corners of her mouth had trembled downward. She opened her mouth, and bawled fit to wake the dead.

“What...” said Alistair, completely flummoxed. He glanced over at Elissa, who had, at that moment, entered their _boudoir_. “She was fine a second ago...what happened?”

“She just scared herself,” said Elissa. “She'll be all right in a moment.”

The baby's wails had tapered to sniffles by the time Alistair returned his attention to Anna. She sucked at her fingers and chuckled around them. Alistair warily looked at the baby. “Peek, Anna?” he said slowly.

Anna laughed again, this time with less gusto and more confidence. Alistair laughed himself, shaking his head. He slid his hands under Anna, and lifted her to his chest. The baby made another noise of contentment as she molded herself to his body.

He had patted her back, and felt his heart surge with strong feeling for Anna. Alistair looked at Elissa again, and this time his wife's eyes shimmered with tears. “Such a good Daddy,” she said, her hands clasped under her heart.

His lips stretched in a semblance of a smile. Oh, he was falling in love with their tiny foundling, but for all the fond regard he felt for Anna, his heart curdled for Elissa. It felt as if he had been forced into this affection for his foster daughter. He hated the feeling.

**3**

Pacing the halls of his castle, Alistair thought about his options. He could spend time alone here at home, but that would cause needless strife between himself and Elissa. He could travel, but that would take him away from Elissa and the baby. He could look for counsel around his Keep, but the news that he sought advice from one of his servants (and not his wife) would cause Elissa to have a stroke.

Would Eamon speak to him about this? Would Eamon even understand his words? Since the last time Alistair had visited Eamon and Isolde, Eamon's condition had worsened. There were no more moments of lucidity. Eamon had reverted to his childhood when he was conscious, and stayed unconscious for increasingly more time. His time was nearly up.

They had made their peace, the last time they spoke, but Alistair wished to see him one more time before the end came. He had questions that only Eamon could answer. He did not want those queries to go unanswered any longer.

If Eamon couldn't speak, there were only two other people who could possibly know anything about Alistair's past: Teagan, who had only just begun to show his own advancing age; and Connor, Eamon and Isolde's son.

Alistair prowled the halls of his and Elissa's apartments. He approached the enormous open-air window in their private kitchens. Filching an apple from the basket on the windowsill, Alistair propped his elbows on the sill and leaned out. An errant breeze riffled his graying hair. He took a deep breath and tasted the moist warmth of spring under the chill wind. He bit into the apple, and chewed contemplatively, going over his options in his head.

He hoped Teagan could give some insight to what Alistair needed to know. He knew of Alistair since his infancy, and when he was well, his brother Eamon confided in him often. Alistair propped his chin on his upturned fist. It was a long-shot, and he knew it. Teagan had his own Bannorn to rule...Eamon and Teagan would no doubt had talked about Court and taxes and harvest-time, not Eamon's foster son's parentage.

Connor, though...he was different. His father might very well have confided in his son every chance he got, especially after Connor left for the Circle. Eamon might have done so to find closeness with his soon-to-be-absent-forever-son (or so he might have thought), or maybe he wanted someone to tell his secrets to before the whirling fog overtook his mind completely.

_Maybe_ , thought Alistair. _Connor might know a good deal of the story, Teagan might know the rest. And Redcliffe isn't far from Lake Calenhad, is it? I'd be gone from home for a month, no more. I wouldn't miss a thing._

That decided Alistair. It was time he went walkabout again. Alistair needed answers that he would not find here in the Castle.

**4**

_Dearest,_

_The Road calls again. I've decided to Travel a bit, to visit Bann Teagan, and to bring our Good Tidings to Connor while I'm near Lake Calenhad. I'll send your Love to them for you, this I Promise. I shall send Word when I arrive at Redcliffe Castle. You are my Moon, my Sun, and my shining Stars. I promise I shall not Tarry, nor shall I overstay my Welcome. You have my Eternal Love._

_Your Most Obdt. Servant,_

_Alistair_

Elissa rolled her eyes outrageously at the handwritten note in her hand. She regarded Anna's nanny. “Alistair has gone traveling. It looks like he's left me in the lurch again.”

Lynn sighed. “Does Milord do this often?”

The Queen shrugged. “More often than necessary, in my book.” She scowled at the note. “He could have let the scribe write this, at the very least. His handwriting is terrible.”

**5**

A thin scrim of fog hovered over the surface of Lake Calenhad. The dinghy cut through the low-lying vapor as easily as a sharp knife cut Brie. The little boat bobbed and lurched through the water, and Alistair belly bobbed and lurched with it. He hunched his shoulders under his hooded cloak, and told his stomach to stand down. His stomach told him to bugger off, and Alistair's head lunged over the side of the boat.

After he had finished depositing his slightly-used breakfast into Lake Calenhad, Alistair leaned back into the boat, green and moaning. The ferryman spread his hands in commiseration. “No' everyone grows sea-legs, Sirrah. If'n it makes ya feel any better, I've seen many a Mage and Templar do the same, and come out on the other side greener than you...even our King's family was seasick, all of 'em.”

“That's cold comfort,” said Alistair unsteadily. He turned his head and spat over the side to clear his mouth of unpleasantness. The ferryman had not recognized him, and Alistair made no effort to tell the boatman who he really was. “At least I manage to look glorious, even when puking my guts up.”

“Aye, we all start oot that way, us boatmen. Most of us cap'ns acclimate to the water, a few of us dinnae. So,” said the ferryman, in an effort to take his charge's mind off the churning wavelets and eddies, “you here to see kin, or to give yerself over to the Circle before the Templars find ye?”

“Kin,” said Alistair. “My foster brother lives here.”

“Ah, I see,” said the ferryman. “'Tis a wonderful thing to take in a mage foundling, innit? Most families wouldnae give such a child the time o' day. I hate to hear aboot apostates bein' kilt...an' that's what most o' these foundlings have in store fer them, if they dinnae find a good fambly to take 'em in before they get sent to the Circle.”

“Right,” said Alistair. He closed his eyes, and pretended that his stomach wasn't ready to give up the ghost again. Without thinking, Alistair pushed his hood back as he armed an oily sheen of sweat from his forehead.

The ferryman blinked. “Majesty?” The captain peered closely at Alistair. “It _is_ you!” He made an unsteady show of kneeling to his King, causing the little skiff to bob dangerously. An unholy grinding sound emanated from Alistair's throat, and Alistair threw his upper half over the side of the boat again.

Fingertips dangling perilously close to the water, Alistair gasped in misery. “Stop, _please_! My stomach can't take anymore!”

The ferryman stood rapidly. “My apologies, Majesty. I had nae idear you was easily seasick...'tis a family trait, so it is. King Cailan couldnae even _look_ at a boat withou' horfing on his boots.”

“Now _that's_ a charming mental image,” chuckled Alistair, as he fought a losing battle of attrition with his stomach again. He swallowed once, felt his gorge rise, and belched thunderously. The more-than-slightly-ill regent leaned back in the boat again, groaning.

“Highness?” The ferryman glanced uneasily at his King. “I dinnae remember ever hearin' aboot a foster son in the Royal house. Who is it that yer visitin' again?”

“ _I_ was the foster child, actually,” said Alistair. “I am visiting my foster father's son, Connor.”

“Ah! You _were_ Lord Eamon's fosterling, then?” The ferryman nodded to himself. “I remember noo. When you overthrew Queen Anora's bid for the throne, it had come out that you were Lord Eamon's foster son and King Maric's bastard. Meanin' no disrespect, Highness.”

“None taken,” said Alistair. He glanced up, and his stomach tied itself in a knot when he realized they weren't even halfway across Lake Calenhad. “Do you have some parchment and ink? I'd like to write my Last Will, now. I think I'll be dead by the time we reach the other side.”

“Oh, fer pity's sake!” The ferryman reached into his jerkin, and pulled out a fragrant packet of herbs wrapped in muslin. It was the size of Alistair's thumbnail. The captain held it out to his regent. “Take this, Majesty. Put it under yer tongue. It'll take the sick away from yer belly.”

“Maker's Blessings all _over_ you!” Alistair snatched the packet from the ferryman, and hastily stuffed it under his tongue. Three minutes later, King Alistair Theirin lay sprawled across the soggy bottom of the dinghy, dead to the world. He snored loudly enough to nearly vibrate the boards of the ferryman's sturdy vessel.

The ferryman himself had returned to the job at hand. He glanced at his King over his shoulder, and snorted laughter. “Sweet dreams, Highness,” he said. “Now at least I can do me job.”

**6**

Commander Cullen glanced up from a mountainous sheaf of paperwork when the double doors to the outside world boomed open. He stood in a hurry when his King strode in. “Highness! What brings you here?”

“I'm here to visit Connor Guerrin,” said a hollow-eyed Alistair. I have some questions for him.”

Cullen's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “The former abomination?” Since his imprisonment in the Circle Tower during Uldred's insurrection, his distrust of all things magical had become set in stone—and never mind that Connor had become a powerful mage of the Circle, he was still once possessed by an unholy desire demon. “Why? What news have you of him? Has he done something I should be aware of?”

Alistair made a small noise of annoyance, and waggled his head in negation. “No...no, he's my foster brother. I'm here to visit, and to ask after his father.”

“I see,” said Cullen, somewhat mollified. “Were it anyone but you, King Alistair, I wouldn't let them pass. You have your Templar training...you could negate even the most powerful mage in a trice.” He held his hand out to his overflowing desk. “Make yourself comfortable while I fill out the paperwork.”

A simple, straight-backed chair sat forlornly before Cullen's massive oaken desk. Alistair dropped into it with a sigh of relief. After his disastrous voyage across Lake Calenhad, it was either sit down or fall on his arse. Twenty minutes after taking the ferryman's belly-sick antidote, and just as the boatman maneuvered the skiff into its dock, Alistair woke screaming to a half-remembered, heart-stopping nightmare. He scared the ferryman badly enough that the poor old man nearly shoved his own regent out of his boat and onto the dock.

The nightmares always exhausted Alistair. He could never sleep well, even after one slipped past his iron grip, and the night stretched out before him. Sometimes, after a nightmare terrorized him and he scurried to his wife's side of the bed, he shuddered helplessly in its wake. Sometimes, he begged the Maker to give him the strength to not shame himself and sob into Elissa's hair.

Sometimes, the Maker listened.

He glanced at Cullen. “I had no idea you had become Commander here. What became of Ser Greagoir?”

Cullen pressed his lips together. “He died, Majesty. It happens to the best of us.”

“So it does, Ser Cullen,” said Alistair absently. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

The Templar inclined his head to Alistair. “Thank you. I'll never be his equal...but he left a mess that even the Maker couldn't make heads or tails of.” He motioned to the piles of parchment on his desk. He smiled to himself. “I pray that I am as good a commander as _he_ was, and that this would be my only foible as Commander, also.”

Cullen scratched at the parchment with his quill for a few more minutes, as Alistair fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. The Templar Commander finished writing with a flourish. “There we are. You know the way, Majesty?”

“Yes.”

Cullen nodded. “Right, Majesty. I will not keep you.”

**7**

Connor Guerrin sat at his desk, poring over piles of ancient scrolls and books given to him to sort by his beloved mother. Unbeknownst to him, Connor mirrored exactly the very man that mistrusted him the most. He brought a disintegrating scroll to his eyes. As he adjusted his spectacles, Connor blew an irritated sigh. He placed the scroll on his desk as gently as he could, but it didn't matter one whit—the scroll fell apart the second it left his fingers.

A heavy hand knocked at his door. Frowning, Connor raised his head. “Come,” he said, unable to mask his irritation.

The door swung open. Alistair smiled at him cheekily. “And to think...I always thought I was the grumpy one.”

“Alistair!” Connor stood, and crossed the room. The young mage held his hand out, and Alistair grasped his forearm warmly. “What are you doing here?”

“Just to say hello,” said Alistair, grinning. He sobered suddenly. “I...really need to know something, and I think you are the best person to ask.”

“You're not fighting with the Lady Elissa, are you?” said Connor. “She is the first person you seek counsel from.” Connor held his hand out to his desk, and Alistair sat with a great, whistling grunt.

“It is because of Elissa that I need to seek counsel. She and I...we are running out of time to produce an heir.”

Connor's eyebrows drew together sharply. “Running out of time? What do you mean?”

Alistair pressed his lips together, and cursed himself for a fool. 'Twas a good thing romance at short notice was one of his specialties. “Elissa and I are growing older, Connor, and it will be increasingly difficult for us to have children at this point.”

“You mean you'll have even more difficulty than you've already had?” Connor raised one shoulder in an uncomfortable shrug. “I though you had given up when your daughter was...well...”

His foster-brother made a small noise of discomfort. “We knew it would be an uphill climb, long before our son was born.” Alistair glanced at Connor sidelong. “It's in our blood.”

“I see,” said Connor. “I never asked you this, but it never came up in casual conversation around the homestead. Alistair, did your and Elissa's children have names? Whenever we discussed them, it was always 'your son' or 'our daughter'. They _did_ have names, didn't they?”

The King nodded, almost abruptly. “Of course they did. When our son was in Elissa's belly, she and I were a little less cynical. When he was born dead, we were sure that if we had him named and blessed, his soul would find its way to the Maker.” He fetched a sigh. “After our daughter was born, we gave up on such trivialities.”

“Your daughter went to her grave _nameless_?” Connor gasped at the blasphemy.

Alistair made a _moue_ at Connor. “I said we became cynical...I didn't say we were suicidal. She and I have a very healthy respect for the Maker and His abilities.” Alistair plucked a spyglass off Connor's desk, and twirled it in his fingers. “She had a name, as well. Elissa and I didn't make the information public.”

Connor gazed at his foster brother frankly. “What were their names?”

Alistair glanced at Connor. He held his gaze for a moment before dropping it to his feet. “Our daughter's name was Mary. Elissa and I picked out her name long before she was born. It means 'rejoice'. We thought her coming was cause for celebration.”

“Yes. No matter the outcome, it was,” said Connor. He clapped his hand on Alistair's shoulder. “And your son?”

Alistair stared hard at the spyglass in his hands. “He...we named him Duncan.” He lowered the spyglass to his lap, and hung his head over it.

Connor nervously cleared his throat. He patted his foster brother's shoulder again, this time in commiseration. He may not have lost anyone to the Great Beyond, not yet...but as one day flowed into the next, his father came one breath closer to crossing the Veil. He knew that Death was as inevitable as sunrise and sunset, but that knowledge didn't make the pain go away.

The mage made a small noise of understanding, and squeezed Alistair's shoulder one more time before releasing him. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to open old wounds.”

“It's all right, Connor,” said Alistair. He glanced at his foster brother, his eyes full of pain, but dry. “You meant no harm.”

“Have...you seen Mother and Father lately?” said Connor, gently changing the subject.

“No,” said Alistair, “but I've come a-calling to ask after them, and...to pick your brain for answers. My past is a mystery to me, and always has been. I wondered if your father spoke to you about me or my origins.”

Connor pursed his lips, and slowly paced his quarters. “I'm not sure if I'm the best person to ask. Father and I spoke of many things, but your past was not one of the things we discussed often. Perhaps Uncle?”

“I thought of that,” said Alistair, tapping his teeth together. “I'm not sure if Teagan would know enough to warrant grilling him about it.”

The mage spread his hands. “I'm sorry, I...hold it,” said Connor suddenly. Tented fingers pressed against his mouth, he strode purposefully to his foot-locker. “I might have something for you.”

Alistair sat up straight. “What is it?”

Connor rummaged in the chest, the area around his knees filling with trinkets and old rolls of parchment. He drew out a wrapped bundle of yellowed parchment. Connor studied it, nodded once, and held it out to Alistair. “This is for you, Highness,” he said with a small grin.

The regent took the rolls from the mage's hand. “What do they say?” asked Alistair.

“Mother gave that to me a few weeks ago,” said Connor, avoiding the subject. “They were accidentally stuck in a set of parchment rolls she wanted me to translate, so I suppose Mother had no idea they were in there. After I realized what they were, I put them away to either give back to Mother, or to you. I had nearly forgotten about them. Sorry.”

“No worries,” said Alistair, a glimmer of hope burning in his chest. “Do you mind if I opened them here?”

Connor scratched at his cheek. “Eh...I'd rather you not. I don't want to be mixed up in whatever those scrolls portend. I honestly don't want Mother to be angry at me for giving them to you, especially if I wasn't supposed to.”

Laughing, Alistair nodded. “All right. Far be it from me to intentionally annoy Isolde.” He slipped the rolls in his jerkin. “I'll look at these at home.” He held his hand out to Connor, and his foster brother clasped it warmly. “Thank you for this. I'll leave the visit to Teagan for another time, thanks to your help.”

“Alistair...why do you want to know about your past so much?” Connor squeezed his hand. “The past is gone. Best to look to your future.”

The King smiled with little mirth. Connor had no idea just how little time he and Elissa had left. Alistair rolled his eyes shut. “You're right, of course. Thanks for your counsel.” He glanced at Connor sidelong, and tapped at the parchment. “How much of these did you read, anyway?”

“Enough to know it didn't need to be translated with the rest,” said Connor. “The text in those scrolls isn't very old, Alistair. Take what's there with a grain of salt...and read them with Elissa.”

“Thank you, Connor,” said Alistair again. “I promise I'll do that.”

**8**

The promise Alistair made to Connor didn't last very long. He approached the ferryman. Each man giving the other a wary, distrustful glare.

“Feelin' better, yer Majesty?” said the ferryman.

“I am at this second,” replied Alistair tremulously. “I can't guarantee what state my stomach will be in ten minutes from now.”

The ferryman inclined his chin at Alistair's scrolls. “Majesty...ya might wanna tuck them pieces o' paper away, so as ya dinnae horf on 'em.”

Alistair stepped lightly onto the boat. He wobbled to his seat, and untied the scrolls. “That won't be a problem,” he said distractedly.

“Suit yerself,” said the ferryman. “There ain't nothing more gag-inducin' on a boat than readin'. Fair warnin', Highness.”

“Mmm,” said Alistair. The ferryman lapsed into a morose silence, as Alistair unrolled the heavy lambskin sheaves. He read the first few lines on the first page, fighting nausea. After a few more lines, his nausea was forgotten; the boat, its ferryman, Lake Calenhad, everything around him—it all disappeared.

Alistair flipped to the second page, devouring the text therein. Faster and faster he read, his eyes flying from one end of the page to the other. By the time the ferryman's tiny skiff made it across Lake Calenhad, Alistair had finished the entire missive, and three words rang over and over in Alistair's head like clarion bells.

_Rowan...Maric...Fiona._

He couldn't go home, not yet. Perhaps it was best that he went to see Teagan, anyway—for if the damned scrolls he carried close to his heart were true, everything he knew about himself was wrong. Everything.

He needed to clear his head first. _A good long walk will do the trick,_ thought Alistair, as he refilled his rucksack with supplies at the Spoiled Princess by the docks. He slid a few sovereigns to the shopkeeper, and the young man behind the counter took them without showing that he knew who Alistair was. _After I clear my muddled head,_ he thought to himself, _I can go see Teagan. Even if he doesn't know anything, he'll listen to me._

**9**

Over the next month, Alistair traveled from Lake Calenhad to the deep southern tip of Ferelden. He traveled incognito, as he always did. He left his sword hilt unbuckled at all times. It mattered little...no one accosted him on his trek after he crossed into Lothering. Even fifteen years after the Blight ravaged Lothering, no one repopulated the quaint town or its surrounding area. Even the animals stayed away.

Alistair drew Starfang, and stood _en garde_ at the decomposing wooden gates of the ghost town. He allowed his senses to spiral out from him, tasting the air, feeling for that dark tainted aura that bespoke of Darkspawn. Nothing...there was nothing, not even a wisp of Blight was left there, after so long.

His head swiveled on his neck, as he took in what Lothering had become. There—there was the Chantry, and its message board, both no more than piles of rubble. The footbridge that had once spanned the tiny stream that ran through Lothering was in a similar state. The little huts...the shops...the great stone gates that led to the King's Road from either side of the village...everything had been reduced to detritus.

He took in the old, old carnage, and sighed once. He had no regrets about joining the Grey Wardens, but he regretted that he and Elissa couldn't stop the Blight from ravaging this shanty town. As run-down and rickety as Lothering was, he didn't wish this on the people that once lived there. He wondered if everyone managed to get out of Lothering in time, before the marauding throngs of Darkspawn and the Blight that they brought had swept through. The Blight spared no one, but he hoped the Maker blessed the people that could not escape from here fifteen years ago, and welcomed them into His home .

When it was apparent that there was nothing living in Lothering except himself, Alistair walked to a pile of stones, and sat down slowly. As hale and robust as he was despite his age, his walkabout had worn him down to his very bones. He grunted once, and pulled the scrolls from a hidden pocket sewn into the lining of his cloak.

Alistair flipped to the last page in the packet. He frowned over its contents, trying very hard not to crumple the lot into a tight ball and throw the whole shebang into the stream.

_Eamon,_

_I hope all is well in the Keep at Redcliffe. I'm sorry to hear about the lad's malady, is he well again? I haven't any idea what to do to help the child become well, for information on half-elves is sketchy. I wish I could help you, and I sorely wish Fiona was here to lend her knowledge. She would know more about this than I, and she'd certainly know her own blood better than anyone else. Were you able to find a nurse for him? Again, were Fiona here, this would not be a problem._

_To answer your prior query: I haven't the slightest why Fiona's disappeared. Had she_ not _, perhaps the situation we have found ourselves entangled in might never have happened. This is a difficult situation for everyone involved, aside from the babe being a Royal bastard, half-elven, and half-Orlesian. The ruse you had thought up will work splendidly, as it's nearly impossible to tell the half-elves from the humans just by sight alone. Using the deceased servant-girl and her child as cover should do the trick. No one will ever know, and the babe will be protected by his anonymity._

_Cailan wishes to see his dear uncles, but I feel it is in his best interest that he does not come a-calling for a while, at least until the baby has grown and it becomes clear who he looks like. Cailan is a good boy, Maker bless him, but he is not a particularly bright lad. He might ask questions, he might not. When I told him we would not be at Redcliffe Manor for Satinalia, he threw himself onto the floor and had a tantrum, but it could not be helped. A nearly-five-years-old boy could not possibly comprehend why he is being kept from his holiday, and I don't think I can lie to him._

_We shall speak more on this later, as I await your next letter, my friend. My thoughts go with you both. Maker smile upon you, good-brother._

_Maric_

_Post Script: Eamon, what is the boy's name?_

Alistair rolled the parchment tightly. He had to quit Lothering; he had to quit it right now. He had someone to talk to, but it wasn't Teagan, and it certainly wasn't someone who could answer his questions without the help of a Ouija board and planchette.

**10**

Ostagar did not fare any better than Lothering—in fact, Ostagar had become completely engulfed by the Kocari Wilds. As far south as he was, it didn't surprise Alistair in the slightest that there were still patches of dirty snow on the ground. He could see quite a few different sets of animal tracks in the snow, and felt his heart lighten a bit at the thought of the Wilds recovering from the Blight.

Alistair had no map, nor did he have any inkling where anything was, save the bridge to the Tower. His destination was beneath the bridge. He hoped the cairn remained unmolested by wildlife these fifteen years. He didn't want to find it torn apart by hungry wolves.

He picked his way to the cairn. It was a slow, perilous walk. Anything from a shattered limb to a broken neck awaited him on the craggy rocks below the bridge. When he arrived, he let out his pent-up breath in relief. He stood before the cairn in silence a moment. The cairn remained unmolested.

After the Archdemon was defeated, Elissa came back here with Alistair, and covered Cailan's burned-out funeral bier with heavy, quartz-shot stones. Now, fifteen years later, the dazzlingly white stones had each grown a beard of moss.

Alistair inclined his chin to the cairn. “Hello, Cailan. Anora is well. She is in Orlais, now. I could have had her imprisoned in the Castle, but I felt that it would be in poor taste to lock up my sister in law.” He grinned at the ground between his feet. “Your wife told _my_ wife that you followed my life's progression, for about as long as Anora could remember.” He looked up at the cairn. “Why? Why did you care so much about me? I was a Royal bastard, a nobody... _no_ threat to you. Yet, you followed my life. Why?”

He got no answer from Cailan, nor did he expect one.

“It's times like this that I wish you were alive. If you were following me so closely, you might have answers to some of my questions.” Alistair held his hands at chest level, palms up. “Wish in one hand, spit in the other.”

Alistair grinned at his brother's remains, as if the man himself sat before him, sharing a laugh and a pint. The smile dropped suddenly from Alistair's face. He peeled his lips back from his teeth, and bellowed at Cailan's cairn. “You _always_ knew who I was! Someone told you about my existence...who was it?” He shook his head at his brother's grave. “Was it Maric? Queen Rowan? One of your uncles?” Frustrated, Alistair clenched his hands closed. “Who told you about my relationship to you, and why on Thedas would they _do_ that to you?”

Something else gnawed at Alistair's guts. “Maric wanted to keep my existence a secret to safeguard your throne, and entrusted me to Eamon. He came to think of me as his own. After I went away to the Chantry—and later, to the Grey Wardens—everyone coddled me. Why? Who gave the order to protect me from harm?”

Again, no answer from beyond the grave—but Alistair didn't need one. He sat at the foot of the cairn, and chewed at the tip of his thumb pensively. He glanced at the cairn. “'Twas Eamon, wasn't it?” He nodded to himself. “He was a part of it, for sure.”

Alistair stood slowly. “I know there are no answers here,” he said to himself. The ringing, hollow tone of his voice had begun to give him the willies. It sounded to Alistair's over-taxed ears like he was the last man left on Thedas. Soon, if he didn't get himself gone, he would begin gibbering in panic.

“Eamon, then,” said Alistair. “I shall seek him out. Maker help me, he might already be dead, Cailan.” He turned to go. In his state, Alistair had no idea what direction he was going, and ended up going south instead of north...which landed him in the one place he knew he didn't belong: the Kocari Wilds.

**11**

By the time he realized his mistake, Alistair was a half-day's walk into the Kocari Wilds. As he bitterly changed course, Alistair drew the ends of his cloak tighter, shivering against the unseasonable cold. He glanced about with an odd sense that he was being watched. He heeded this strange feeling, as the Kocari Wilds still swam with Chasind. After the Blight ended, the Chasind returned to their lands, very unlike the denizens of Lothering, and even warier than before the Darkspawn swarmed.

Alistair skirted a patch of what looked suspiciously like quicksand, and tripped over a nearly invisible hummock. He lost his footing and fell to the ground in a painful tangle of arms and legs. The spongy ground was harder than it looked. A surprised grunt escaped from his lips when the pain of the fall did not abate immediately. Forty was nothing like twenty-five, he realized with a bitterly amused pang.

A sharp, needling pain seared his belly, and Alistair rolled to his back, eyes sliding shut, to rub the stitch easier. He sighed once, and opened his eyes.

He wished he hadn't. A Dire wolf—no more than a cub, really—hovered over his prone form, slavering at the mouth. Its muzzle wrinkled back from its yellowed, razor sharp teeth. Alistair's eyes widened, and he gasped. The wolf caught him completely unaware. It gave him little chance to unsheathe his sword, or unhook his shield from his back. Without a chance to defend himself, he was a dead man. He squeezed his eyes shut, and awaited his fate.

“ _Who are you?”_ the wolf growled suddenly. _“You don't belong here. Go away!”_

“What...?” Alistair blinked at the wolf, scared stupid. “You can _talk_?”

The wolf's unnatural yellow eyes bulged in nameless lupine fury, and made to descend upon Alistair, perhaps to tear his throat out and bathe in his spurting blood. Before it could, a bolt of arcane energy sizzled over Alistair's head and barreled into the wolf. It howled in pain and unmitigated—almost _human_ —anger. The wolf's body sailed through the unnaturally cold air, and landed three or four meters from Alistair's body.

Alistair scrambled to his feet, yanking his shield from his back. As he tried without much success to pull his sword from its scabbard, a tired, annoyed voice said, “Don't bother. I will kill you where you stand, if that sword moves one more millimeter.”

The voice was maddeningly familiar, but Alistair didn't give it a second thought. His fingers came off the hilt of the sword, and he raised his empty hand.

The disembodied voice spoke again. “The shield. Drop it. I know how skilled you are with that thing. You'd cut my head off with the edge of your shield if I let you.” A slim form had begun to emerge from the dense fog that had gathered. “Drop it, Alistair.”

Alistair peered at the approaching figure in the fog. “Who are you? What is the meaning of thi... _huurk_!” His shield dropped from his deadened fingers; his back bowed when the paralyze wave struck him. He groaned when all feeling died in his body.

“You are in no position to demand anything, Alistair.” The woman—and Alistair was very sure the figure that quickly approached was a woman—stepped close to Alistair. “You are on my homeland, however, so I have every right to ask _you_ what _your_ purpose is, here.”

She released Alistair, and he slumped to the ground on his belly. While feeling slowly seeped back into his extremities, he rose to his hands and knees, hanging his head. “I should have known.” He laughed suddenly, a dark, derisive sound in the gloom. “Never in my wildest dreams had I expected to run into _you_ , Morrigan! How long have you been watching me?”

Morrigan stepped into his line of sight. “ _I_ haven't been watching you. I've been watching my daughter. My _daughter_ has been watching you. You expected it, no?”

“I...no. My head is too wrapped up in my own problems.” He glanced around. “Besides, I didn't think the Chasind camped this close to Ostagar's ruins.”

“They don't.” Morrigan crossed her arms. “Why are you here?”

Alistair rolled to his back. He sat up, and wearily dropped his head on his cocked knees. “I was looking for something...answers, I suppose.” He inclined his head at the Dire wolf. “What will you do with that...dinner, I wager?” Alistair bared his teeth at Morrigan in a savage grin. “You Chasind apostates love roast wolf, don't you?”

“Oh, _that_.” Morrigan approached the wolf, and whacked it smartly with her staff. “Get up, you lazy girl. Don't make me beat you in front of company.”

The form of the wolf slowly melted away, leaving the naked body of a seven or eight year old girl in its wake. Morrigan glowered at the child, and produced a ragged smock from the confines of her own robes. Shaking her head, she knelt down and pulled the smock down over the girl's head as the youngling rose to a sitting position. The girl glanced over her shoulder at Alistair, and scowled at him.

As Morrigan helped the girl to her feet, Alistair got his first good look at the child. She was a sturdy girl, surely seven or eight, with her mother's raven hair and yellow eyes. Alistair took one look at the girl, then at Morrigan. “Is she...is _this_ my...?”

“You're still as stupid as I remember,” said Morrigan. “I lay with you fifteen years ago. Lilith is eight years old. Do simple mathematics elude you, or do you think I stayed pregnant for seven years?”

Alistair scrambled to his feet, and approached Morrigan. “Where, then? Where is the child?”

Morrigan's face hardened further. “You cannot see hi...the child. I told you the night of the Ritual—you would never see the child, for as long as you live.” Her face crimsoned when she let slip that the child was a boy.

Alistair tilted his head at Morrigan, a twitching, confused frown playing at the corners of his mouth. “A son? We had a son?”

Morrigan pursed her lips and regarded her toes. “We had a son, yes. And he still lives.”

“He'd be fourteen now, I wager,” said Alistair, almost to himself. “I wonder, who does he look like? What's his name? Is he...?”

Morrigan drew back and slapped Alistair, cutting his words off as if with a sharp knife. “You are to know _nothing_ else about him,” she hissed. “You are not welcome here. Go back to whence you came.”

Rubbing the sore, reddened spot high on his cheek, Alistair stared incredulously at Morrigan. “I admit we hate each other, but this is something that binds us, despite that.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “I want to see him.”

Morrigan mirrored his actions and his stony expression. “No.”

“It wasn't a request.”

“Mum says no!” Lilith imitated her mother down to her tiny scowl. “No one crosses Mum!”

“Lilith, _hush_!” said Morrigan suddenly, and with much vitriol. “Go home and check on your brother, _now_!”

“No!” Lilith raised her chin. “I'm gonna keep you and Cormac safe, I am!”

Morrigan blanched. “Keep your mouth _shut_! I told you...”

“You named our son after the man your mother joined in battle, five hundred years ago?” Alistair smiled without humor, as he advanced on Morrigan. “Isn't that precious.” He sneered at Morrigan. “Stop stalling. I want to _see_ him!”

Incensed to the point of dementia, Morrigan stomped to where her erstwhile lover stood, and shoved her face pugnaciously into Alistair's. “You have no right to demand that of me. You have no right to demand _anything_ from me!”

His nostrils turned white as they flared. In his taxed state, his own voice had become increasingly shrill, even in his ears. He felt odd, as if he would burst into frightened, frustrated tears any second...or suddenly wrap his fingers around Morrigan's neck and squeeze the life from her, if he had to listen to Morrigan's tired, nasal voice any longer. “Are you trying to rile me, Morrigan? He is of me...so, yes. I _can_ demand that of you.”

Morrigan clenched her hands into fists. “You gave me your _word_! The night we created Cormac, you and your woman gave me your word you would never seek him out. In return, I promised you I would never use the boy as a pawn against Ferelden. Those words were bound in the blood that drove the Ritual!” She bared her teeth. “Damn your reneging soul to _Hell_!”

“Mumma?”

Morrigan whipped her head around sharply, as did Alistair. Behind the embattled pair, stood a young man. He was sturdily built, this youth, broad-shouldered and tall—almost as tall as Alistair himself.

The man-child gazed at Morrigan and Alistair with a mix of discomfort and amusement. He had a spiked maul in one hand. He had hooked the maul's business end lazily over his shoulder, a bloody rabbit's carcass tied clumsily to the hilt. His other hand twined in his own hair, as he tilted his head vacuously at Alistair.

Two things occurred to Alistair then. The first thing was that the boy was without doubt his son. He had his mother's ebon hair and golden eyes, but his visage was the spit and image of Alistair's own. The youth, still confused, grinned emptily at Alistair, and the second thing occurred to him instantly.

“I...oh, Maker. The boy is simple...isn't he, Morrigan?” Alistair gazed at Morrigan. “He is, isn't he?”

Morrigan's anger bore into him. The fire dimmed from her eyes suddenly, and she dropped her gaze first. “Yes. I...knew the Ritual would work—why wouldn't it? Mother's magic was powerful. But I had no idea the soul of the Old One would do this to him.”

Against his will, Alistair's eyes were drawn back to the boy. “Why? What did it do to him?”

Morrigan clenched her teeth. “His soul is that of the Old One, that much is certain. What I didn't count on was the Old One's soul became dormant the second it entered his body.” Morrigan took a deep breath. “The boy is essentially soulless, as the Old One sleeps within.”

She shook her head. “That's not completely true. He has the semblance of a soul—the one he was _meant_ to be born with, had the Old One not invaded his body after his conception. He exists, he feels, but he cannot truly ever be on his own. He will forever have the mind of a child, unless the Old One wakes.

“Cormac's own soul is a fledgling one, and fragmented. The Ritual had Tainted his body, something that would have otherwise never happened had I not cast the magick for the rite. When the time comes, the Taint will kill him...and he will not understand why.” Morrigan raised one shaking hand to her forehead.

Alistair almost had to physically stop himself from patting Morrigan's shoulder. “Will It? The Old One, I mean...will It wake?”

She shook her head. “I do not think It will.” She stood silently before Alistair for a few moments, and raised her head.She regarded Alistair for many moments, and then she turned to her son. “Cormac?”

The half-grown man ambled over to where Morrigan and Alistair stood, and his sunny smile nearly broke Alistair's heart. “Mumma?”

Morrigan smiled painfully at Cormac. She tipped her eyes up at Alistair, and suddenly her hand caressed his careworn, grizzled cheek. She turned her gaze to her son. “This is your father, Cormac.”

Cormac stared uncomprehendingly at his mother. When he was able to make sense of his mother's words, Cormac's sparkling, disconcerting eyes widened in joy and disbelief. His sweet, handsome face lit up, and again Alistair was struck dumb by the fact that Cormac would never have a coherent thought on his own, that he would never fall in love, or that he would never live past his thirty-first birthday.

_Oh, Maker,_ thought Alistair, _My boy...my Duncan, he would've looked just like you, Cormac._

The boy's face tilted up to Alistair's own countenance. “Da?”

Alistair nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled, and choked on unshed tears. He had to get a tighter rein on his emotions, lest he lose control completely. It was in his best interest to not frighten the lad...'twas best not to frighten the Old One. “I'm your Da.”

“My Da,” said Cormac, as he swiftly wrapped his burly arms around Alistair's ribcage, and engulfed him in a bone-crunching bear hug. Alistair felt his son smile against his throat. One of Alistair's trembling arms reached up, and curled around Cormac's shoulders. It was then that Alistair lost his battle with his tightening throat and burning eyes. He buried his face in his son's coal-black hair, and allowed his emotions free rein.

Father and son stood that way for some time, rocking in each other's arms. When his tears played out, Alistair fetched a trembling sigh. “Elissa and I can come back to take him to the Deep Roads, when our time comes. 'Tis a far better end for him, than madness.”

Morrigan shook her head. “No. I will not allow it. He will have no idea why you have taken him from his home—from _me_. He will be frightened, surrounded by hordes of Darkspawn. He is capable enough, but he will not last long in the ancient Thaigs.”

Alistair stroked his son's head, smoothing his hair back from his temples. “That's the point, Morrigan. We Grey Wardens never last long on the Deep Roads. We go there to die.”

“The boy is no Grey Warden, Alistair. He is merely Tainted.” Morrigan dashed angry tears from her cheeks. “When his time comes, I will help him find peace. No one else will do that in my stead.”

Alistair scoffed angrily, even as his arms tightened around Cormac. “You would kill your own son... _our_ own son?”

“Better me than a nameless fiend,” she replied. “A Darkspawn would kill him, because that is what it was born to do. It has no other drive beyond dealing death and causing destruction. I would deal the killing blow out of love, for I could not bear to see him suffer.”

An angry chuff of derisive laughter erupted from Alistair's mouth. “You know love? That's a joke, right?”

She nodded. “I learned what love was, the day Cormac slid from me into my waiting hands. I may be a Witch of the Wilds, but I am also human,” she said slowly. “We, as humans, are born to do a certain number of things. We are born to learn. We are born with the capacity for emotion.” She turned her face into Cormac's homespun cloak. “We are born to die.” She sniffled gracelessly. “Our son taught me that.”

“I see,” said Alistair. “You've changed. I'm glad for you.”

“Such pretty lies. Do you gift your wife with such niceties?” She shook her head when Alistair gazed at her uncomprehendingly. “Forget I said anything. I wish to give you something...call it a gift, if you like, but I give it under one condition. You must promise never to come back. Promise me you will never look for us again.”

This wasn't what he set out to find, initially, but meeting his son was a small victory, nonetheless. 'Twas something to think on in the darkness of night. After some thought, Alistair nodded. “You have my word.”

Morrigan made a disgusted _moue_. “I had your word the night we conceived him. _Tcha_...never mind. For what it's worth, I will accept whatever I can.” Morrigan walked to Alistair and Cormac, and pressed her body against her son's back. She wrapped her arms around Cormac's slim waist. In doing so, her hands stole to Alistair's own solid middle. She hesitated, then allowed her hands to slide to the small of Alistair's back.

Alistair was suddenly transported fifteen years into the past, when on the night of Cormac's creation, Morrigan touched him in that same tentative fashion. Alistair could not lie to himself about the night they spent together, to ensure that Elissa's and his own lives were spared when the Archdemon fell. He remembered how good the sex was, and he remembered the shame that washed over him when Morrigan cried out and bent her body into a bow beneath his surging hips That shame left him by the time he gasped his own affirmations to the night, and to Morrigan.

A small, nameless voice in Alistair's head bade him return the slight affection. His free arm twined around Morrigan's shoulder, and drew her nearer. It was in this fashion that Morrigan and Alistair held their son close, together—for the first and last time.

With her forehead pressed against her son's shoulder-blades, she addressed Alistair one last time. “This is my gift to you. Now, you must leave.” Her golden eyes peeped over Cormac's shoulder. “I will not allow this to continue, for the pain it would cause Cormac would be greater if you overstayed your welcome.”

“Would it cause Cormac pain...or would it cause _you_ pain, Morrigan?” Alistair said.

Morrigan's voice became waspish. “Do not construe what we are gifting Cormac with to be affection for each other.” Her eyes became coy. “Unless you are also here to reforge old bonds?" 

Alistair stepped back from Morrigan and Cormac, shaking his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I will go.” He took a long, hard look at Morrigan, and knew that in ten years or so, Morrigan would take Lilith's body, to extend her own life. Morrigan's hair had already begun to gray, her face had become lined, washed out.

“Morrigan nodded curtly. “It is for the best. Cormac, say goodbye to your Da. You will see him soon,” she lied.

“Goodbye,” said Cormac to Alistair. He hugged his Da close again, albeit less bruisingly. Alistair held him tightly, all the while scanning his face, taking as much of Cormac's visage in as he could remember. He released Cormac, and walked to his mother.

“Morrigan,” said Alistair, “I never thought in a thousand years that I would run into you or your children. I...want to thank you for allowing me a chance to see Cormac. He is the greatest gift you could have given me.” He drew his hand down Morrigan's cheek. “Thank you.”

Morrigan clenched her jaw. “You need to leave.” _Now_ tears burned Morrigan's eyes.

Alistair stood before his son's mother, and nodded. He licked his lips. “Goodbye, then.”

“Just _go!_ ” The tears that threatened now fell. She dashed them away angrily. “Leave us!”

He did. When he was gone from their sight and out of earshot, Morrigan wailed to the gray sky, and slumped to her knees.


	6. When All Things Come To Pass

1

Elissa walked through the cobbled streets of Denerim, surrounded by ruin. Her feet trod across bits of splintered bone and blood spatter and gobbets of flesh; the sky overhead was tinged a bloated, festering green. Elissa flared her nostrils, and tasted the taint of blood and corruption on the air. 

She walked on. She saw her friends scattered across the humped and cracked cobblestones, broken. Elissa felt little when she saw the sorry, sad remains of her comrades; she felt nothing even for her Zevran, who lay crumpled and mangled at her feet. His eyes stared up at her, unseeing and yet full of contempt and accusation. She did not give even her erstwhile lover a second glance, and walked on.

She walked past a dead Ogre, its body a pincushion full of arrows and blades. She passed a writhing pile of burning Genlocks, some of them still barely alive and shrieking in unimaginable pain. She saw a rubble pile that might or might not have been Shale; she saw a disembodied arm that most likely once belonged to Leliana, its mottled hand still holding the hilt of _The Rose's Thorn_.

Elissa mounted a rise, and saw what was once the Archdemon. Its hulk sprawled across the cobbles, the thing's once-lustrous scales now dull and clouded. The bodies were thicker here. There were those that defended the Old One even in its death throes, and there were those that defended Denerim, and Thedas, from the ravages of the Blight.

Finally, there was a small twinge of regret in Elissa's heart for those that fell. She whispered a short prayer to the Maker to guide those brave souls home into His loving embrace. “So let it be,” she finished, as her eyes fell upon the hunkered-down form of her betrothed. Alistair's back was to Elissa. He was on his knees, and he did not move. Her head tilted in confusion, Elissa approached Alistair.

She circled his crouching body, and wished she did not. _Now_ she saw the blood-encrusted armor; _now_ she saw the hilt of the sword snug against his close-cropped hair; _now_ Elissa did not want to see what damage some unnamed Darkspawn had done to her heart's blood...and _now_ she had no choice, because here she was, losing a battle of attrition with her gorge before Alistair's body.

Perhaps it was one of the Horde's generals that had done the deed; perhaps a Hurlock with luck on its side and murderous intent had dealt the killing blow. Some large, hulking Darkspawn with marginal intelligence must have done so...for no weak, Ogre-stupid member of the Horde could have the strength or instrumentality to drive a longsword through a good-sized man's skull, pierce sinew and bone and brain matter alike, and have the blade erupt so violently from the poor man's mouth that the bitter end pierced the stone cobbles deeply, pinning him there for all eternity.

Elissa gazed at Alistair's hands. His fingers were wrapped around the blade, most likely in a mindless attempt to remove the thing that had ultimately taken his life. A piteous moan escaped her lips. “Maker...oh, Maker!” she said, her voice quavering in disgust and grief. “You didn't deserve this!” She stretched shaking fingers out to caress his face, now blue in death.

As the tips of her fingers touched Alistair's cheek, one of his lacerated, bloodied hands uncurled from the blade that pinned him and clutched her wrist. Gasping, Elissa yanked her hand back. She curled her body around her violated flesh, as the dead body before her came to juddering life.

His eyes, once cloudy marbles, now stared balefully at Elissa. He grinned, a malefic expression made worse by the sound of his broken teeth grating against the blade. Alistair stood, tearing the sword from the broken cobblestones. The hand that had seized her reached up and wrapped itself around the hilt. With a horrid squelching sound, the thing that once was Alistair yanked the sword out from behind him. 

Alistair brandished the sword at Elissa, and shuffled toward her. “This is your fault,” he said, and his voice was choked with death. 

“No,” she replied, quaking. “No, this is _wrong!_ We destroyed the Archdemon...we defeated the Blight!”

“Your fault,” he repeated, and the industrial grinding sound that posed for Alistair's voice made Elissa want to clap her hands over her ears and screech in terror. What once was her beloved glanced over her head, and again the livid corpse met her eyes. He leered at her. 

“It's what you deserve,” the corpse said.

Eyes widening, Elissa had very little time to raise her own countenance to the sky, before a chitinous, taloned claw pinned her to the ruined ground. Grunting, she was able to get enough leverage to flip to her back. She only wished she did not.

A dragon the color of a fresh bruise hovered above her supine form. It spread its jaws, and bared its many dagger-sharp teeth at the Warden. As Elissa opened her mouth to scream, she realized that she had no breath to do so...and as she lay helpless in the Archdemon's deadly embrace, it spread its leathery wings.

And then the Old One's thunder filled the world.

2

In the dark, Elissa's eyes opened. She has to mash her lips together, to stay the shriek that threatened to erupt from behind them. Her chest heaved, as her eyes darted helplessly to and fro. The dark was discombobulating. Her hands clutched the fine down comforter under her body. It was this simple act that brought her back to reality. Elissa realized then that she was in bed in the Keep's apartments.

She rolled over to Alistair's side of the bed, to accept comfort from her husband. With a grunt, she remembered that he still wasn't home. Elissa's hands brushed her heavy, graying hair back from her sweating brow. _A nightmare,_ she thought with a shiver. She blew a trembling breath as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness. Elissa turned her head to the right, and thanked the Maker for the watery moonlight that streamed through the gaps in the heavy curtains.

She sat up, and realized with frightening certainty that she was not alone in the room. Elissa's hand stole under her pillow, as her fingers curled around the hilt of her ornate jeweled dagger. It was a wedding present from Leliana. The thought of her Orlesian friend brought back the pervasive imagery of Leliana's severed arm in her nightmare, and Elissa shuddered. 

She bolstered her courage, and spoke into the gloom. “Who's there?”

From the inky darkness, a sinewy voice replied, “It is Zevran.”

Sucking at her teeth in annoyance, Elissa kicked the sweaty sheets from her body and launched herself out of bed. As she lit the lamps on the nightstand, she said, “What are you _doing_ in here? How on Thedas did you manage to get into the castle?”

“You are asking a master lockpicker how he got into your castle,” said Zev, smiling nastily. “Let us say I wanted to practice one of the many crafts the Maker endowed me with...to stay sharp, you see.”

“Very funny,” said Elissa. When every lamp in the room was lit, Zev's face was thrown into stark relief. Alarmed at the tired, drawn look of his face, Elissa searched the elven man's eyes for answers. When she found none, she stood before Zev, her hands on her hips. “Are you going to answer me, or are we going to play Twenty Questions?”

The half-playful smirk slid from Zevran's countenance as he sobered. “There are problems in Thedas that you need to be apprised of. Things are not as they seem in Orlais.”

“How so?” Elissa shook her head. “I don't understand.”

Zevran raised his hand to an armchair, which Elissa dropped into. Zevran perched himself on the arm of the plush couch, and took Elissa's hand. “What I have to tell you might not be privileged information anymore. You have other means of gathering reconnaissance, yes?”

“Of course,” said Elissa shortly. “We didn't get to keep out thrones by blindly shutting our eyes to the rest of the world.”

He nodded. “The rest of the world has no idea what goes on in Orlais right now, but they will. My very own Remy slept in Celene's bed for the information I have for you. At this point, it's pillow-talk, but it will explode into something all of Thedas will be buzzing about before you know it.”

“You put your own second in Celene's bed?” She thought of the aged Empress, and made a _moue_. “I should be flattered that you've made your best spy sleep with Old Empress Celene to reconnoiter intelligence for us.”

“Joke all you want, Milady,” said Zevran with a strained laugh, “but I'm trying to be serious. You may think that Celene gave you your child as a bargaining chip, to barter for peace later. She did not.”

Elissa sat up ramrod-straight. “What do you mean?” When it came to Anna, Elissa was all ears. “Why would she give us Anna, if that wasn't her intention?”

Zev sighed. “Celene gave you Anna, because she was told to do so.”

She turned to her elven friend, blinking incredulously. _“What?”_

Licking his lips, Zevran spoke in a halting voice very unlike his own drawl. “She...cannot barter for peace with the royals of Ferelden anymore, because she is only Empress in name. She is no longer the power behind the throne in Orlais.”

“Maker,” Elissa breathed. “Do you know who is?”

He shook his silver mane. “Not exactly. We know she is Orlesian, and that she might have been a part of an Orlesian bard's guild rivaling the Crows in Antiva. Taliesin would know who she was, were he alive.” Zev ground his teeth. “Were she an ordinary bard, she would not have easily wheedled her way into Celene's High Court.”

Elissa's eyebrows drew together. “Is she posing as nobility?”

“No.” Zev spread his hands. “She _is_ nobility.”

Elissa twisted her lips in thought. “If this woman is noble – on par with a Teryna or Arlessa here in Ferelden – she could very easily wrest control of Orlais. If Celene is as old and doddering as we have guessed, this upstart could very well take Celene's throne with nary a whimper from the other nobles or even the people of Orlais.” She shrugged. “What's wrong with that? Isn't that how many royals come to power? Old Celene didn't have any children herself. Someone needs to take over ruling Orlais when she parts the Veil and joins the Choir Invisible. Why not new blood?”

“Because that 'new blood' has her eyes on the rest of Thedas,” said Zevran heavily. “Orlais is one of the most powerful countries on Thedas, and has a military force to be reckoned with.” He leaned closer to his comrade. “This upstart has Celene's ear...and Celene confided much to this woman. She knows that King Alistair and Queen Elissa have no offspring to rule Ferelden when they are dead. What will stop this usurper from raging into Ferelden, murdering you two and taking over your country?”

“Maker's mercy,” said Elissa. She sat pale and shaken in the wake of this startling news. “What else does she know?”

“That your husband is not _here_ ,” said Zevran, tapping his palm with one finger. “That he leaves the country in your capable hands...but still and all, she knows that Alistair goes gallivanting to who knows where, whenever the mood strikes him. She could send her Chevalier troops here and take over, all because Ferelden's current King can be considered inept.

“Elissa,” he said, as an afterthought, “have you heard from Alistair?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “No,” she rasped. “Zevran...he could already be dead!”

“We are caught at an impasse, it seems,” said Zevran. “You cannot leave your country without a ruler, so you cannot go out looking for him. Is there anyone you can trust to find him?”

“I can do better than that,” said Elissa. “Bann Teagan can keep things tidy here in Ferelden in my stead. He is well-loved, and the people will stand by him if push came to shove. I don't think Orlesian troops are on the move if this information you've given me isn't common knowledge yet.”

Zevran stood. “Shall I fetch the Bann? I guarantee you that I have the fastest horse in all of Ferelden”

Standing herself, Elissa shook her head. “There is no need. Bann Teagan arrived the night before last, seeking Alistair's approval on this year's tax proposal. When he found out I was alone with the baby, he insisted on staying here at the Keep until Alistair returned.” She smiled fondly. “Frankly, I think this wet Spring has settled into his old bones, and he just doesn't want to be traveling in the dank anymore.”

Zevran nodded, mollified. “All right. I can help you look for the bumbling oaf...erm, I mean the King of Ferelden, and the Bann can hold the fort until we return from Alistair's haunts. It is my duty as your erstwhile paramour to escort you.”

Elissa made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, as she tore open her armoire and yanked riding gear from it. “You'll never let me forget that, will you?”

As he opened the door and stepped outside, Zevran looked over his shoulder at Elissa and smiled disarmingly at her. “Of course not.”

3

Alistair couldn't return to Denerim fast enough. Not only did he miss his family (and even more so than he would have, if the bombshell Connor dropped on his unsuspecting head hadn't happened), but he had to speak to Eamon and Isolde. He hoped Eamon was still alive. 

When he finally approached the great oaken doors of the Arl's manse, Alistair had merely raised his hand to the ornate brass knockers, before the doors boomed open. To his surprise, Isolde stood in the doorway. She gulped, and nodded once. “I watched you approach,” she said, in answer to his unasked question.

She stepped aside to allow Alistair entrance to the Keep. He shrugged free of his stifling cloak and tossed it on a nearby coat rack, where it hung askew. He looked askance at Isolde. “Eamon?”

Isolde could not meet his eyes. “He is alive. I cannot say for how long.”

Alistair dropped his gaze to his boot-tops. “He's dying.” Not a question.

Sniffling into a lace handkerchief, Isolde nodded. “His end comes. I am grateful Connor is here to say goodbye while he still can.” She smiled at Alistair. It was decidedly unfriendly. “He has not spoken at all in two days. I am no physician, nor am I a mind-reader. He cannot tell me what ails him. His death could come tonight...it could be a year from now before he succumbs. Eamon is beyond everyone's reach.”

“Connor is here?” Alistair nodded, relieved. “I didn't see any Templars on the premises, so I didn't think he had arrived yet. I'm glad the Circle let him come.”

Isolde lifted her chin, a shadow of her old haughtiness gleaming in her faded light brown eyes. “Our family name makes it easy.”

Alistair ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to stand at odd angles. “I suppose it does.” He met Isolde's eyes, and was not surprised to see the old disgust of him welling there, festering. “Is Connor with Lord Eamon now?”

“Connor is resting in his old chambers,” replied Isolde, her lips pooched in annoyance. “He is weary from travel, and from the stress of his father's illness. Do not disturb him.”

It had been many years since he stood before Isolde as an irascible nine-year-old, but even at her advancing age, she still had the power to make Alistair squirm. “Yessum.”

Her lower lip trembled. “Go and speak to Eamon, for all the good it will do you...Highness. He does not hear. Make your peace with him.”

“Thank you,” said Alistair, heedless to Isolde's bitter tone. He steeled himself, and made his way to the Master bedroom.

4

Eamon lay on his bed, his hands folded upon his breast as if he was already in state. His face was gray, his eyelids stained purple. His chest rose and settled with irregularity. Eamon's body was worn, used up, and his time was nigh.

Alistair knelt at Eamon's side, and took one of his hands. “My Lord,” said Alistair, his voice haggard in the candlelit dimness. “Eamon...it's Alistair.” He gazed down at their clasped hands. He should have known better. Eamon hadn't opened his eyes in weeks. Why would he do so now? Alistair glanced up at his foster father's face, and was shocked nearly out of his own hide when Eamon met his eyes in complete lucidity.

“Has Connor arrived?” whispered Eamon.

Alistair bobbed his head. “Yes. He is resting.”

“I pray he comes to see me soon. I wish to say farewell.” Eamon drew a shallow, rattling breath. “I have very little time. See that he comes to me after you've finished asking me your questions.”

In his weakened state, pneumonia had settled into Eamon's body, and squeezed the life from him inch by inch. He drew another bubbling, phlegmy breath. Alistair tightened his grip on Eamon's hand. “How did you _know_ , Lord Eamon?” he said.

Eamon smiled. It tore at Alistair's heart to see the tired, used quality of it. He ignored Alistair's query. “You wish to know about your mother.”

Blinking, Alistair leaned closer to Eamon. His hand tightened spasmodically on Eamon's arthritic one. “But how do you _know_?” he repeated.

“Isolde told me, when she thought I was unconscious,” said Eamon. “She speaks to me often, when she thinks I cannot hear her. It settles her heart to talk to me, even if she thinks I cannot answer.” He drew his eyebrows together sharply.

“Why would she talk to you about my mother?” said Alistair.

“She speaks to me about her day-to-day doings. You came up when she realized she sent Connor a packet of parchment...one that contained letters from Maric.” Eamon sighed. “I miss that man, nearly as much as I miss his son. Cailan was the apple of Maric's eye – of _everyone's_ eye.”

“Cailan was a good man,” said Alistair. “Maric was right to be proud of him.”

Eamon nodded slowly. “And Cailan was right to be proud of you. When he spoke of you, he could never mask the pride in his voice.” He smiled at Alistair. “What did you want to ask me?”

Alistair cocked his head at his foster-father. “Is it true...that my mother was Elven?”

Eamon looked steadily at Alistair for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. Finally: “Your mother's name was Fiona. She was an elven mage from Orlais...and a Grey Warden.”

The air in Alistair's lungs hit low-tide. _“What?”_ he said in a whisper, when he was able.

Eamon nodded slowly. “Yes. Whatever made her a Grey Warden in the first place had mysteriously vanished. I know next to nothing about your Order, and even less about what you go through to become what you are. When she disappeared, Maric told me that she had lost her connection to the Wardens, and that you might never had come to be if that connection had not been severed.” He coughed again, and it was thick with death. His breath labored, then steadied. “He was never clear about why, and I daresay he knew as much about the Grey Wardens then, as I do to this day.”

“Loghain hated the Orlesians,” said Alistair. “They conquered us, and alongside Maric he took our country back from them.” He whistled through his teeth. “No wonder Loghain despised me. I represented everything he stood against.” He suddenly dropped his forehead into his palm, as if he were suddenly struck by a monstrous headache.

“Alistair?” Eamon raised his head. “What is it?”

Alistair licked his lips, a fretful gesture. “When we stood against Loghain fifteen years ago, Elissa announced that she would rule by my side.”

“I _was_ there, Alistair,” said Eamon. His eyes twinkled. “What are you getting at?”

“After we had won the day at the Landsmeet, she and I spoke at length about her rashness...after dark,” said Alistair, crimsoning.

“Before the two of you celebrated your victory, I wager,” said Eamon, laughing rustily into the gloom. When Alistair's flush darkened, Eamon nodded, gasping. “It's been a failing of yours for your whole life, son. If you had opened your mouth any wider, you might have fallen in. Isolde and I could hear the two of you from the other side of the Manor.” 

His words had the desired effect. Alistair's laughter rang through the gloom. “Had I known about _that_ then, I would have had Elissa stuff a rag in my mouth.” He sobered. “I argued with her about her audacity. I loved her more than anything – I _still_ do – but I was ticked at her for forcing the marriage issue.”

Eamon raised a fuzzy gray eyebrow. “Would you had asked her, if she _didn't_ force the issue?”

“In _time_ , I might have,” said Alistair, his face a thundercloud. “My kingship was secured by that marriage announcement. Her brother was still missing then, so for all intents and purposes she was Teryna of Highever...one step below royalty. I'm sure at least one of the nobles at the Landsmeet saw her statement as a bid for power, but most of them took her announcement as her vote of confidence in me as King. Her approval of my bid had won the day, and I argued with her about it.”

“Mm,” said Eamon. His eyelids fluttered, and Alistair sensed that Eamon could not stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. His next nap could be his last, so he decided not to tarry overlong.

“I...I told her she was lucky that she was human. Had she been anything _but_ , I wouldn't have even toyed with the notion of marrying her after I became King. I told her that tensions were high enough in Ferelden as it was, and an Elf on the throne would have caused our countrymen to revolt. I told Elissa to consider herself fortunate that she was a Fereldan noblewoman, and not an Elf or a mage...and look at me.” He made a face. “I'm half Elven mage-spawn myself.” 

“You didn't know...and that was the way I wanted it to stay.” Eamon sighed, and the sound was like November wind through dead grass. “I only wish Isolde _didn't_ send those letters to Connor. You would have gone to your grave not knowing. It might have been for the best.”

“Maybe.” He steeled himself. “Lord Eamon, there is a reason Elissa and I cannot have children. I want to tell you why.”

He stood, and leaned over Eamon's form. He pressed his forehead to Eamon's and whispered, “The Darkspawn taint in our blood is the reason. Even if this Fiona hadn't lost her taint, she and Maric could have still created me. Elissa and I are both tainted by Darkspawn blood, so our chances of making children are almost nil.” He pulled away from Eamon slightly. “The Joining...what makes us Grey Wardens what we are...it is a death-sentence. We have thirty years after our Joining before the Darkspawn taint in our blood drives us mad. She and I have fifteen years left.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I'll speak to Elissa about it, but I think your research of the Glory Age might do us a bit of good.”

Eamon squeezed his hand. “I knew you would see my side of it.” He raised his free hand and pointed a shaking finger to three books on his ornate desk. “Take those.”

Nodding, Alistair tried to slide his hand from Eamon's weakening grasp. The old man's fingers suddenly wrapped around Alistair's wrist. He pulled him closer again. “'Twas brave of you to tell me this. Thank you.” Eamon's hands were icy against Alistair's, belying the warmth of the last words spoken to his King. “Cailan and Maric weren't the only Theirins I am proud of.”

Alistair touched Eamon's face, as the old man's eyes fluttered shut. “Goodbye,” he said, and Eamon smiled once.

“Father?”

Alistair turned to the sound of Connor's voice. He inclined his chin at his foster-brother. “He wants to talk to you. I was just leaving, Connor.”

Connor narrowed his eyes at Alistair. “Goodbye, then.” He did not offer his hand to Alistair as he left Eamon's bedside. As Alistair exited Eamon and Isolde's bedchamber, he wondered how much of his confession to Eamon Connor had heard.

5

As he left Eamon's bedchamber, he realized Isolde sat to the right of his chamber door. She sniffled intermittently, wringing her skirts.

Alistair sat next to Isolde, and took her hand. She gasped, and almost tore her hand from his gentle grasp. She steeled herself, and glanced in Alistair's direction. “Have you made your peace with Eamon?”

Alistair nodded. “Yes. I daresay he'll want to speak with you, as well.”

Isolde gasped. “He is _awake_?”

He nodded again. “I don't know for how long, but he is lucid now. Connor is with him.” He inclined his head at the bedchamber. “Go on. He'll want to see you.”

Without another word, Isolde swept her skirts up from under her feet and raced for the chamber. Alistair watched Isolde go with a small, tired smile on his lips. When the door to Eamon's chamber had clicked firmly shut, and Alistair was certain that he was alone in his dusty, dim hallway, he leaned forward over his knees.

Alistair did not expect the storm of his tears to be so violent, nor did he expect it to take hold of him so suddenly and so surely. He covered his trembling mouth with one hand, and wept for his foster father. He had no idea how long he sat there, hunched over and keening, but once the squall had passed he felt better, husked out. Alistair took a deep breath, and dashed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands.

A lace-edged handkerchief materialized at Alistair's elbow. He mopped his still-leaking eyes and thanked Isolde without looking at her. “Did you speak with Lord Eamon?” he asked.

“I did,” said Isolde. “He and I had enough time to say 'I love you' before he passed out. I do not know how much longer he will last.” Isolde sniffled into the lacy twin to Alistair's hanky. “Connor will stay with him until the end.”

“Yes,” said Alistair. “Connor is a good man. Would that I had his courage.”

“You speak so disparagingly of yourself, Alistair. You've proven to me manifold that you are ten times more kindhearted than _I'll_ ever be.” She twisted her handkerchief. “When you and your comrades saved Eamon from the poison that threatened his life, you proved it to me. I was too stiff-necked to admit it, even then.”

Alistair dropped his gaze to his lap. “You don't have to, Isolde...”

Isolde's eyes flashed dangerously. “Don't you _dare_ tell me what I can and can't do! If I want to apologize for the way I treated you, then I shall apologize!” She gasped convulsively as her gaze shifted to the far wall. “How could anyone treat you the way I did? You were such a sweet little boy, and blameless, and I treated you like refuse.”

Alistair remained silent. He did not want Isolde to splash him with her vitriol again, not now. She continued. “When you were little, you tried so hard to befriend me. I wanted nothing of it, because I thought you were here because of Eamon's indiscretion. It didn't matter that you were born long before I arrived. I still felt threatened by a child that could have remained in our household and been a true elder brother to Connor as he grew. I was stupid, and I punished you for my own stupidity.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I'm sorry.”

Silence spun out between Isolde and Alistair. When it payed out for as long as it could, Alistair hung his head. “Thank you, Isolde.”

The silence returned, albeit less strained. “What brought that on, all of a sudden?” said Alistair finally.

“You deserved an explanation for my actions,” said Isolde. “Of all the people to treat badly, I had to choose you as a vent for my ire. It was unfounded, at any rate, and I would understand if you hated me for it.”

“I don't hate you, Isolde. I never did. I resented the way you treated me...but I never hated you,” Alistair said. “I was a bit jealous of the others in my family...the ones that I thought were more loved than I was, like Connor and Cailan.” He laughed. “I thought it was ironic that Cailan followed my life so closely when he became an adult.”

Isolde shook her head. “You don't know the half of it. When Cailan first learned of your existence, he did indeed follow your accomplishments...but he was much younger when he was told of your family ties than you know.”

Alistair swallowed past the mysterious lump that had formed. “Who told him, then? Who told Cailan about me?”

“You think _Eamon_ told Cailan, don't you?” When Alistair nodded, Isolde laughed bitterly. “He thought about telling Cailan of your parentage, but did not act on it. He didn't have to. Once Cailan was old enough to understand, Maric told Cailan about your existence himself.”

_“Maric?”_

Isolde shrugged. “It was he – and your mother, in part – that asked Eamon to keep you safe from harm, to keep you anonymous. Maric did not wish to be seen as a philanderer, so you were a well-kept secret...but he made sure you were well.” 

Isolde smiled at Alistair suddenly. “Before Eamon became ill, he told me about the first time he took you to see his sister's family, the summer after the fever that almost took you.” 

When Alistair goggled at Isolde, she grinned, nodding. “In everyone's eyes, you were Eamon's foster son...and to those that liked to wag their tongues, Eamon's _illegitimate_ son. Even though it hurt me, Eamon allowed those rumors to fester. It kept Maric's secret safe.” The corners of Isolde's mouth curled with little humor. “Teryn MacTir had taken that selfsame opportunity to visit Maric's household. He and Maric had words that week, most likely about Maric's indiscretion... _you_ , in fact. Loghain carried a flame for Queen Rowan, did you know that?”

“No,” croaked Alistair.

“Loghain and Rowan were romantically involved for a time, but Rowan and Maric married eventually due to Loghain's insistence. Even though it was Loghain's idea, I don't think he took it very well. He married another not long after, and had Anora. He loved his wife, never think otherwise – but I think a small part of his heart belonged to my good-sister, always.”

Isolde's eyes misted in remembrance. “According to Eamon and Teagan, you were shuffled to just about everyone in the castle that weekend. Everyone had the opportunity to hold you and fawn over you. Those that did not know your true parentage thought you were the most darling thing on the face of Thedas, and that Eamon was blessed to have you. Even Teryna MacTir adored you.” Isolde paused a moment, reminiscing. “At that point, Eamon told me that Cailan wasn't very interested in you, but Anora thought you were the most precious thing she had ever seen. She was three or four, I think, and she wanted to dress you and carry you about like one of her dollies.”

Alistair was startled into strangled laughter. “She did?”

Isolde nodded. “Yes. She was much more interested in you than Loghain was, that's for certain. You even ended up on _his_ lap once, thanks to the Teryna, and he wasn't very happy about it. You managed to vomit down the back of his new brocade doublet and piss down the front of it at the same time. I think he took that as a divine sign that you and he weren't going to be the best of friends.”

“What can I say, I've always been a talented chap,” said Alistair. 

“The day you and Eamon had left Denerim, Maric held you, and said goodbye to you,” said Isolde, almost conversationally. “He knew he would never get that opportunity again. The next time he saw you, you were too old for it – you would have retained the tiniest mote of memory, jeopardizing the secret Eamon and Maric had cultivated.”

Alistair sat rooted to the spot, stunned. “Maric...he did that?”

Isolde nodded. “The next time you saw Maric, you were four, and he had brought Cailan with him to Redcliffe. When you had greeted Cailan, he was already aware of your parentage. This was why he ignored you during that visit. He was quite vexed with Maric, you see.”

As Alistair took this new shred of information in, the Keep's doors boomed open, and Bann Teagan strode in. He glanced around furtively, and when his gaze settled upon Alistair, his eyes sharpened. “Thank the Maker. Highness, you need to get yourself home. Now. Something is afoot.”

Alistair sprang to his feet. “Is everything all right?”

“Once you show yourself, everything will be,” replied Teagan. “You...”

“Mother?”

Isolde turned to the small, shaking voice. Connor stood in the doorway of his father's chamber. His eyes swam with tears. Mother...Uncle, you're here...you ought to come see Father. I...think it's time.”

Teagan and Isolde followed Connor into Eamon's room, and sat at his bedside. Alistair stood propped against the doorway, his fist pressed to his mouth, and watched as the three remaining Guerrin family members said goodbye to Eamon.

6

As Alistair strode through the heavy oaken doors of his own Keep later that afternoon, Alistair's mind churned with _what-ifs_ and _quite-possiblys_ and _why-nots_. His old life was rife with loose ends and unanswered questions, and he needed closure from it. He kept Eamon's books cradled close to his chest.

He passed the nanny's quarters, just as Lynn burst through her chamber door. “Oh, thank the Maker! Lady Elissa was worried _sick_ about you!”

After recovering from the initial shock of Lynn – of whom he still considered a crazy murderess – leaping out and startling him, Alistair nodded once to Lynn. “I'll bet. Where is she and Anna?”

Lynn gestured to his apartments. “In your private chambers, I reckon. You might want to get to her as quickly as you can.”

He didn't ask for clarification of Lynn's cryptic remark; Alistair simply broke into a loping sprint to his bedroom. When he burst through his doorway, panting and sweating profusely, Elissa and Zevran whipped around, as startled by Alistair's arrival as Alistair was by Lynn.

Zevran had just finished helping Elissa into her rucksack- _cum_ -baby carrier. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Zevran twirled his index finger before Elissa. She obediently turned on her heel, presenting her back to the elf as she gave Alistair a withering glare. “Welcome home, Husband,” she said, her arms crossed over her chest.

“It _took_ you long enough,” said Zevran, as his nimble fingers unlatched the rucksack buckles that crisscrossed Elissa's back. “We were just ready to come looking for you.” He inclined his head to Anna's crib. “ _All_ of us.”

Alistair turned to Anna, and his stony countenance softened when he beheld his foster-daughter. She stood at the bars of her crib, clutching the railing as she wobbled with joy at the sight of her 'father'. He drank in the sight of her. Her dark curls were longer, her cheeks chubbier, even her widely smiling mouth showed a new addition: two tiny teeth peeked out from behind her lower lip.

Anna bounced on her toes again, and drooled on her tiny fists. “Da!” she shouted with unmitigated glee.

“Oh,” said Alistair. His numb fingers reached up and undid his spring-weight cloak ( _and was it edging on summer, already?_ thought Alistair). He let the garment pool at his feet, and when he was free of it, he walked to Anna's crib with his hands outstretched.

Anna watched Alistair approach and grinned hugely, her own hands held high. He lifted the baby from her bed, and held her close. “Da,” said Anna again. She dropped her head on Alistair's shoulder and threw her pudgy arms around his neck.

Alistair rocked Anna, frowning. “How on Thedas does she know _I'm_ Da?”

“Elves have long memories, my dear Alistair,” said Zevran. “If you were gone for three _years_ instead of three months, she still would have remembered your face.”

He held his foundling, and sighed. “Has it been so long, Elissa?” he said to his wife, after he planted a gentle kiss on the crown of Anna's head. “I didn't think I was gone for so long.”

“You've been gone for well over three months, and you didn't think it was too long to stay away from Anna and I?” said Elissa. She exchanged a pointed glance with Zevran. “I thought you were dead.”

Ferelden's missing King approached Elissa. He reached out and stroked Elissa's cheek. “I'm sorry. I had no way to get word to you. I...I have news.”

“Have you, now?” Zevran shook his head at his old friend. “Was it so important that you could not send word that you were all right? Your wife was demented with worry.”

Alistair slowly turned his incredulous gaze to Zevran. “Why is your opinion about my family life so important...and why are you even here? You were supposed to have gone back to Antiva months ago!”

Zevran sighed, as he crossed his own arms over his narrow chest. “Your Queen hired me for reconnaissance in Val Royeaux.”

His expression hardening once more, Alistair glanced at Elissa. “ _That's_ what all the secrecy was about? You could have informed of... _this_ ,” he said, waving his hand dismissively at Zevran.

The lithe Elven assassin held his hands up in a warding-off gesture. “I'm not going to be a part of your argument.” He snorted. “You might as well let me join you two tonight, if you want me to become involved in your lovers' spat. It's only fair.”

What was meant to be a gentle poke in the ribs had the opposite effect. Alistair's face purpled. “You never give _up_ , do you?”

“Nothing untoward was meant by that, my friend.” Zevran eyed Alistair suspiciously. “You know a joke when you hear it, yes?”

Alistair shook his head. “No, I don't. I'm not as stupid as you think I am, Zev.” He handed Anna to Elissa without taking his eyes off Zevran. “You'll _never_ let me live that down!”

When the baby was safely in Elissa's arms, Alistair advanced slightly on Zev. Alarmed, Elissa touched Alistair's shoulder. “Alistair, _stop_. He was only joking.”

Alistair's glance flicked from Elissa to Zevran. He ran his hands through his overlong hair, and sighed once. He knew a warning when he heard one. “Fine. Let bygones be bygones, right? My news can't wait for petty arguments.” He turned his pale countenance to his wife. “Eamon is dead.”

“Maker,” said Elissa. She buried her face in one palm. “I'm sorry.”

Alistair gave Elissa a curt nod. “He and I discussed...” He glanced at Zevran. “...something private.”

Zevran made a slight noise of annoyance. “Fine, I'm dismissed. I have news as well, Majesty. Call on me when you are ready to hear it.” Without a second glance, he strode from the room and slammed the door behind him.

7

After Alistair recounted Eamon's final words and Isolde's admission, Elissa sat silently beside Alistair on their down comforter. She glanced at Alistair. He reclined against their headboard, the baby asleep against his chest. He would not look at Elissa.

Sighing, Elissa said, “This doesn't bode well.”

Alistair snorted. “What part? The news of my true parentage, that Connor might've heard the Grey Warden's secret, or that Eamon is dead?”

“All of it.” Elissa crawled along the mattress and lay alongside her husband. “This is bad.”

“No kidding.” He finally gazed at his wife. “What news did Zevran have for y...us?”

Elissa heard the verbal slip, and let it slide. It was better not to rile Alistair when it came to Zev. “I'd much prefer it that Zevran told you himself. The news isn't good.”

“I can't wait,” said Alistair dryly. “I'll meet up with him in the throne room.”

“I'll go with you,” said Elissa, mostly to defuse whatever volatility may occur between the two rivals while they were in close proximity to each other.

8

“Celene isn't in power?” Alistair started from his overstuffed chair, pacing the room. “Who _is_ , then?”

“Like I said, I do not know...not for certain,” said Zevran. “My people are looking into that as we speak.” He ran the tips of his long, dextrous fingers through his silvered hair. “So far, every piece of reconnaissance that has come back to me has been bad – really, _really_ bad.”

“The Orlesian armies are huge,” said Alistair. “Anything sent against them in retaliation would be annihilated.”

“Right,” said Zev. “This upstart has might at her disposal. She is a force to be reckoned with.”

Elissa fetched a deep sigh. “Perhaps diplomacy is in order here?”

“No,” said Alistair. His face was grim. “We will not give her a single inch. To do so would be to concede weakness.”

Zevran sucked at his teeth. “My dear Alistair, sometimes a cat's paw is more agreeable than a mailed fist. I've learned this as leader of the Crows.” The swarthy assassin spread his hands. “I now pass this sage knowledge to y...”

Before he could utter anything further, Alistair slammed Zevran against the nearest wall. The elf grunted once, and gave Alistair a look that foretold death. His hand clutched his dagger, but dropped from its hilt when Alistair planted both palms to either side of his head.

“I don't need your 'sage knowledge', Zevran,” said Alistair. The King of Ferelden panted with fury, his countenance white to the lips. He leaned close to Zev, their noses nearly touching. “I'm no fool. I can handle this upstart myself.”

“You can _not_! I only offer the help of my people,” Zevran countered. “I do not wish to usurp your responsibilities!”

“Of course not,” said Alistair, baring his teeth. “You only want my wife.”

Zevran paled under his swarthy complexion. “Is that what you truly think this is about? That my coming to Ferelden to give you intelligence and to aid you...was merely a ploy to sleep with the Queen?” Heavy, angry blood suddenly crashed into Zev's cheeks. “Do you honestly think I would stoop so low?”

Alistair let his hands drop to his sides. “Yes,” he said, after a lengthy silence.

Teeth clenched, Zevran nodded once. “I see.” He glanced at Elissa, his heart in his eyes. Elissa could not meet his gaze. Zev knew what it meant – she would not openly insult her King by siding with the King's adversary during an argument. Zevran nodded to himself. “I understand. I shall not burden you with my presence any longer. In the morning, I shall take my leave.”

With that, Zevran squared his shoulders, and left the room without another word.

When he was gone, Elissa crossed her arms. “Zevran didn't deserve that, Alistair.”

Alistair rounded on Elissa, his eyes ablaze. “I didn't deserve to be cuckolded. No man does.”

An embarrassed, damning flush rose from Elissa's collar. She remembered the morning Zevran accosted her in her greenhouse, and her flush deepened. “You accuse me...?”

“I'm not going to say another damned word,” said Alistair. “It's bad enough that _I_ know what you did with Zevran. I won't chance the rest of the castle finding out about it, because I couldn't keep my mouth shut.”

Elissa blinked once, her hands stealing to her lips. She gasped once before she ran from the room, sobbing.

Alistair watched her go. When he was alone, he turned to the window and leaned on the sill. He stood that way for a good long time.

9

In the darkness, a shadowy figure watched everything transpire. When the King was alone, the interloper left silently, as smooth as a raven's talon.

10

Later that night, Alistair slid between the sheets and under their fine down comforter, relishing the feel of fresh, cool cotton against his bare skin. He folded his arms behind his head as he lay down, and thought of all that had transpired on that long, long day.

Eamon was dead. Isolde had finally made her peace with him. By the look on his face when they passed one another in Eamon's chamber, Connor would probably never speak to him again – Maker, that hurt. _Zevran will never speak to me again, either,_ thought Alistair, as Elissa stepped into the vestibule between their bedchamber and the hallway that ran through their apartments. _I've cut all ties with everyone that mattered more than a fart in a windstorm._

His eyes cut to their open bedroom door, as Elissa stepped through it. She gazed levelly at Alistair for a moment before disrobing for bed. Elissa slipped under the sheets on her side of the oversized bed with nary a word, and turned her back to Alistair. He glanced at her shoulder-blades, trying to gauge whether he should hazard conversation with her yet. He cupped her shoulder, which she promptly yanked out of his grasp.

Alistair rolled to his back again, worrying his lower lip. Without looking in Elissa's direction, he said, “I'm sorry. You didn't deserve what I said to you today. I...”

“Stow it, Alistair,” she said. “Nothing you say to me right this second is going to make this all better, so don't bother.”

“I had no idea Zevran wasn't aware of what you wanted. If I had known that...all this time, I thought you two were rogering each other behind my back, when we traveled the King's Highway during the Blight.”

Elissa shifted once, as she glanced over her shoulder. She turned her countenance back to the far wall. “We were lovers once, and you know it.”

Air, something that Alistair took for granted, ceased to be the insubstantial, ethereal thing it once was; it clogged his lungs as his throat constricted. “Lissa...I'm not stupid. I _know_ you were cheating on me.”

“Leave me alone...”

 _“No!”_ He sat up suddenly, and seized her shoulder. He put all his weight into his arms, and pushed Elissa to her back. “I won't!” His hand clenched, causing Elissa to grimace in pain and shock. Alistair ignored it. His breath panted in and out of his open mouth in ragged bursts. “You cuckolded me for our friend...”

Elissa blinked in alarm at Alistair's livid face. “Alistair, it was fifteen years ago...I didn't know what I wanted...”

“Shut up! I don't care whether it was fifteen years ago, or a hundred _thousand_! You betrayed me!” 

Elissa's eyes flashed, and Alistair quailed from his wife's ire. “Never,” she whispered. “I never betrayed you. Do you remember the night you asked me if Zev and I were having an affair?”

Alistair drew his eyebrows together. “Yes, I do. You admitted it to me yourself.”

Elissa nodded slowly. “Yes, I did. You told me you wouldn't be party to it, if I was to be with you. I went to Zevran that night and told him that he and I could not be together anymore, because you shared your heart of hearts with me and I did not want to lose you. He took the let-down as well as anyone in his situation would.”

At this, Alistair took his weight off Elissa's arms, and rolled to his back onto their bed. “ _Did_ he.”

“Yes, he did.” Elissa crossed her arms over her chest. “That was the night that you told me you loved me.”

He nodded once. “I remember.” He turned his head on his pillow, and glanced at Elissa. “I didn't lie.”

Elissa returned the nod soberly. “I know, Alistair. That's why I turned Zev down. I felt the same way about you. I had no idea how to tell you, or how to even come to terms with it myself. When you told me, it all came together in my mind. I knew what I wanted...what I needed. 'Twas you.”

“Elissa...”

“Let me finish.” She sighed. “I felt like I was giving up too much to be with you that night. I had no idea what the future had in store for either of us, but I gave Zev up for you anyway. I felt bitterness toward you when you gave me your ultimatum, but the moment I gave everything up for you, it felt right. Once I gave myself to you, I wouldn't dream of mussing that up with an affair. You meant too much to me. You still do.”

Alistair reached out and stroked Elissa's cheek. “I'm sorry, my love.”

She shimmied closer to her husband, and looped her arm around his waist. “It's all right.” She pressed her lips against his chest. “Are you going to make peace with Zev tomorrow?”

Alistair made a face. “I suppose so.”

11

The sun didn't have much time to rise, when there came a heavy knocking on Alistair and Elissa's apartment door. Alistair kicked the bedclothes off, all the while muttering vile oaths. They dressed quickly and ran for the stout oaken door.

When Alistair threw the door open wide, he was more shocked than Zevran, who stood on the other side of the threshold. His knuckles were at eye level, ready to knock again if the Royals proved to be heavy sleepers. Grinning sheepishly at Elissa, he dropped his hand. “I need to tell you something important,” said Zev to Alistair.

“Me too,” said Alistair. He sighed. “I didn't mean what I said last night, and...”

Zevran made a small noise of annoyance. “Later,” he said to Alistair, as he grabbed his arm and dragged him out of his bedroom. “We can kiss and make up later, if you are so inclined,” said the elf, winking at Elissa, “but something more important has come up.”

“More important?” said Elissa. “What?”

Zevran released Alistair's arm, and ran for the Grand Courtroom. “You have a guest,” he called over his shoulder.

12

The Royals followed Zevran on stumbling, sleepy feet. When the three old companions burst through the heavy double doors of the Courtroom, Elissa's slightly wobbly gait fairly screeched to a halt. Alistair followed suit beside her. Zevran glanced over his shoulder at Elissa and Alistair, and hooked a thumb at the visitor. “Here 'tis.”

Elissa's jaw hung agape. “Anora?”

The erstwhile Queen of Ferelden raised an elegantly arched eyebrow. “The same.”

When she regained her poise, Elissa planted her hands on her hips. “What on Thedas are you doing _here_? You were banished to Orlais.”

“Mmm...that,” said Anora, waving her perfectly manicured fingernails at Elissa. “Orlais is not the best place to be right now...if you happen to be Fereldan, that is.”

“What are you going on about?” Alistair gave Anora a dirty look.

Anora returned Alistair's nastiness. “I may be an unseated, banished Queen, but I am also a patriot. You may have taken me from my beloved Ferelden, but you have not taken my love of this country from me. I have come bearing information that might prove useful to the Throne.”

Fully awake now, Elissa held her upturned palm to their fine wood table. Anora sat herself with a murmur of thanks. Orlais was a long trek from Ferelden, perilous besides, and Anora was obviously exhausted. She wasted no time. “Orlais is in uproar.”

“We know,” said Elissa. “We heard of the upstart, and how she has Celene's ear. She is trying to usurp power in Val Royeaux...”

“She already _has_ ,” said Anora. “That is why I am here. This...upstart, as you call her...has already begun to mobilize the Chevalier in the name of conquest. She has begun to rouse the Orlesians by feeding them lies about Ferelden and Antiva.”

“Antiva?” Zevran blinked at Anora. “This woman has her eyes set on my Antiva?”

“More than that,” replied Anora. “Her Chevalier are already on the move for the Antivan borders. It is too late to mount a counterattack from your vantage...erm, Ser. By the time you return to Antiva, your country will already have been invaded....your own people in Orlais have already been neutralized.”

“Remy,” said Zevran. He visibly shook himself. “Would Celene listen, if reasoned with?”

“You can try,” said Anora heavily. “I don't think she'll listen, nor speak.”

Alistair leaned his forearms on the table. “Why?”

“You'd need a medium to do that, Alistair.” Anora sighed. “Celene is dead.”


End file.
